


cause darling i'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream

by weasleyspotter



Series: 50 AUs Meme [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, F/M, With maybe a happy ending, so very very very AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2858465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weasleyspotter/pseuds/weasleyspotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jemma's father gets tangled up with Hydra, he makes a barter for his life. One that costs him his daughter's. </p>
<p>(Or how Jemma and Grant could meet in the 1920s and Hydra is still involved.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, finally. The 1920s AU that I've been rambling on and on for ages about. I've been writing this fic for about a month and I only have three chapters (two of them are only have finished) and a detailed outline to show for it. I wanted to finish the entire story before I posted it, however, this new two weeks are historical AU for wswinter, and since a majority of that time, I will be on vacation, this is all I can think to post. Also this is my late Christmas present to you all. I dunno if it's any good, but...
> 
> A few notes on this fic. One, it's going to be lonnnggg. Not chapter wise, there will probably only be seven chapters give or take an epilogue. But the length of each chapter will probably be at least 5k+. Two, at this point I pretty much have the whole story plotted out and it's going to be a bit dark and angsty, but I can assure you it'll have a happy ending. Three, it's a slow build romantic subplot wise. It's going to take sometime. 
> 
> Finally if I were to describe this plot, it's beauty and the beast meets the 1920s meets the mob. It's historically accurate to the best of my ability. My knowledge of the 1920s is limited, and I've tried to verify what I wasn't sure about. But I'm sure there are somethings that I won't get right. I've included some lingo and some references. Anyway, if I made a major mistake, feel free to message or comment about it. 
> 
> Enough of my blabbering, onto the fic.

i.

By May of 1922, Jemma Simmons is well used to the devastated look on her Father’s face when he arrives at the home late in the evening.

She knows the look well enough to not hope for anything better.

However on the Saturday her life changed, her father’s look seemed more frightened than devastated, and that shook her to her very core.

ii.

“Where is your Mother?” Her father asks gruffly as he enters the kitchen. He takes his hat off and holds it against his chest tightly, as if it were a Shield.

“I shall go fetch her,” Lola, the youngest, offers, happily. She jumps out of her seat at the table and races upstairs.

Her father levels her with a look she knows well, and she quickly gathers up the rest of the children with an offer to retreat to the drawing room. Only Robert puts up a fuss, as he is old enough to pick up on her father’s glances as well. She fixes him with a stern glance, and he only protests for a second longer before he passes through the doorframe after her.

She only catches a glimpse of her mother as she rushes past the drawing room to the kitchen. Lola is only steps behind her when Jemma calls out to her. “Lola, dear, come join us in here.”

Lola is a merciful distraction. She is all smiles and giggles as she bounds into the room, a spring in her step as she bounds into the room and begins the beg Jemma to play them a piece on the piano. Jemma acquiesces far more easily than she usually would, and the children gather around the piano as Jemma tinkers out the beginning bars of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

“Oh, Jemmie,” Lola sighs in distress, “Can you play the other one? The dancing song? Please?”

Even Robbie, who is leaning against the doorframe, trying to pick up their parent’s conversation, perks up at the suggestion.

“Alright,” Jemma smiles. “But shhh.”

She begins to pounding out the opening notes to _Singin’ in the Rain_ , hoping her father is too distracted to notice the change in music. The song wasn’t Flapper, and her father knew that, but the site of Jemma pounding out anything even associated with Ragtime or Flapper would be enough to send her father into a fury and her mother to wail at _‘where she went wrong?’_

As Lola and Mary (just a year younger than Robbie) begin to hum along, Jemma loses herself in the music and allows herself to think.

Being the eldest came with many privileges, it meant she knew what Robbie ached to know. She knew of her father’s vices, and subsequently their family’s massive debt. Prior to the recession, her father had been an inventor, a modest one, but her mother had quite a bit of wealth to her name, and being the only child, it had been left to her. They had been able to lead a fairly nice lifestyle, until the recession. Her father had made a big play for one of his inventions and failed miserably.

Maybe it was the misery of failure, or the allure of sins that seemed to take over the time, but soon her father fell into drinking and gambling. And before they could realize the extent of his issues, he had been hundreds of dollars in debt.

With her mother’s inheritance lost to the recession, there had been no hope of paying her father’s debts off, and leading her father to stumble through the streets every day in hopes of some work. A hope that was diminishing every day.

Despite all of this, it is difficult to hate her father. Jemma knows that she, herself, is guilty of sin. There had been the childhood sins, being much to interested in the world of science, instead of needlepoint, wanting to pursue education instead of socialization, like her peers. And there had been the sin of not marrying Leopold Fitz, when he had proposed two years ago. This had been her biggest regret.

Perhaps if she had married Leo, perhaps they wouldn’t be in this dilemma.

At the time, she had passed Leo’s proposal because she didn’t love him. Her mother had been furious, but there had been a look of relief on Leo’s face that told Jemma it wasn’t his idea to propose. Now he’s happily situated in the city.

“Jemma,” her mother’s soft voice cut through the haze of thoughts and the music. The song came to an abrupt halt and Lola and Mary scramble to the couch to sit. Robbie stands up straighter and fixes her with a piercing look. Her mother ignores the look at stares straight at Jemma, an eyebrow raised at her selection of song.

Jemma ignores the eyebrow, and stands up.

“Your father would like to speak to you,” her mother says finally, turning around and striding out of the room.

The children turn towards her. Jemma smiles at all of them. Robbie, Mary, and Lola. “It’s okay,” she assures them. “I’ll just go see what Father wants.” Robbie looks hesitant, and moves to follow her as she walks out the room. But she shakes her head. “Watch after the rest,” she orders him as she passes through the doorway.

When she enters the kitchen, her father is sitting at the table with his head held in his hands, while her mother stands the window, a faraway look on her face.

“Father, Mother,” she says lightly, announcing her appearance.

Her father’s head snaps up, “Oh Jemma.” There’s a desperate look on his face that sends shrapnel of ice through Jemma’s heart. “Oh Jemmie, I’m so sorry.”

She hasn’t heard the nickname out of her father’s mouth in ages. On impulse, she rushes towards him and crouches beside him, taking his hands in her own. “What is it?” She asks him urgently, forgiving him almost instantly for whatever transgression caused him to be like this.

Her father takes a deep shuddering breath. “Garrett came to collect today.”

The words freeze her. John Garrett, head of Hydra, the mob that had loaned her father the money. “Mr. Garrett came personally?” It was almost unheard of for a Hydra leader to come personally to collect a few hundred dollars.

Her father gave a nod. “He said—I panicked,” her father stutters. “I said yes, Jemmie.”

Jemma draws back in confusion. “I don’t understand. What did you agree to, Father?”

“Walter,” her mother snaps, drawing Jemma’s attention. “There is no point in beating around the bush, what’s done is done.” Her gaze focuses on Jemma. “Mr. Garrett offered your father a deal in order to absolve him of his debt.”

Jemma’s eyes widened in shock. Whatever Garrett had asked for from her father couldn’t be good. Murder, thievery, assault were all possibilities, but honestly, she didn’t think her father physically capable of any of them. Her father is a useless drunk, what could Garrett want from him.

Before she can open her mouth to assure her father that they would find another way to absolve him of his debt, her mother speaks again. “It seems he wants something else instead of money, or someone else.” She eyes Jemma meaningfully.

Her father gags.

Her stomach drops, and she’s sure she knows the meaning of her mother’s words. Yet she asks. “Surely you don’t mean?”

Her mother levels her with a stern stare.

She can’t help the words that rush out of her mouth. “But Mr. Garrett is so old.”

“Don’t be foolish,” her mother chides her. “Mr. Garrett is already married. He wants you to marry one of his men.”

She feels all the air leave her chest at that proclamation. She stands, dropping her father’s hands.

“Jemmie,” her father says weakly, looking up at her, features etched with pain.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, placing a hand over her tightly laced dress. “I need a minute.”

She turns and runs.

iii.

She forgives her father almost instantly and easily.

She wants to hate him, to hate her mother. But her hatred belongs to Mr. Garrett and the faceless, nameless one she will have to marry.

Eventually the fear and anger fades and resignation sets in. She will marry a man who works for one of the most ruthless men in the city. She will have to leave her house and move into the city. But she will do it for them. For Robbie, Mary, Will, Barbara, and Lola. For her mother, for her father.

She grits her teeth and bears her fate.

iv.

Mercifully, Garrett insists on having the wedding sooner rather than later.

There is no time for preparations, no time for a big party, and she’s grateful that this won’t have to be a bigger affair than it is. Garrett informs her Father that all expenses will be paid for.

All she has to do is show up at the chapel on time and dressed.

(That is job enough, she supposes.)

Originally she plans on wearing her mother’s dress. A full sleeved lacy thing, that’s rather dreadful to be honest. But she doesn’t have time to do dress shopping, nor money. And she doesn’t really care what she wears.

But on the eve of the wedding, a parcel arrives on their doorstep.

Lola tears into it eagerly and nearly shrieks at the sight of the white fabric and beaded embroidery. Even Barbara, the ever proper, emits a sigh as Jemma pulls the dress from the box. The short sleeve gown flowed down to her ankles and fit her like a glove.

“Who do you think it’s from?” Mary asks eagerly, her eyes fixed on Jemma.

Jemma shoots a sour look at her Mother who hovers in the doorframe, torn with excitement and disgust. There was no note in the box, but there is no questioning whom the dress is from.

There is a part of Jemma that wants to wear her mother’s ratty old dress, instead of the lush cream dress sent for her. It is the part of her that rejected Leo Fitz’s proposal, the part that resisted the pressure from her companions to bob her long brown curls, the part of her that secretly read her father’s small collection of science related books. If she is to be a lamb led to slaughter, she would at least dress herself.

She’s not doing this for herself. Robbie, Mary, and Lola. Her mother and her father.

On the morning of her wedding, Jemma Simmons wears the cream gown, pins her hair up, and makes her way to the chapel.

(But there is no smile on her face; it’s the only allowance she gives herself.)

v.

The night before her wedding Mary and Lola refuse to leave her bedroom.

While Mary hesitates at Jemma’s insistence that they sleep in their own beds, Lola is unabashed as she claims that she won’t be able to do this any longer. It’s her last night with her sister. Jemma caves at that.

“I wonder what your husband is going to be like,” Mary wonders wistfully.

Jemma’s threading her fingers through her Mary’s hair, and Lola’s sprawled out on her lap, so she’s careful about her reaction. “I’m not quite sure,” she says, a poor attempt at nonchalance.

“What’s a husband, Jemmie?” Lola asks sleepily.

“A husband is the person you marry,” Mary answers matter-of-factly. “Daddy is Momma’s husband.”

“Oh,” Lola says quietly. “So a husband is someone you love?”

Jemma freezes.

Lola sits up curiously. “Daddy and Momma love each other. So Jemmie loves her husband?”

As Jemma desperately searches for answer that would preserve Lola’s naivety but be honest, the door to her bedroom creaks open. Her mother’s head pokes through the door. Her eyes widen at the sight in front of her.

“What are you two doing in her?” She steps through the door, arms placed on her hips.

Mary looks contrite as she scampers off the bed. “Just talking, Ma.” Lola follows after her.

Her mother softens a bit, her arms falling from her sides. “Off to your rooms, I need to speak to your sister alone.”

Mary and Lola dash out of the room, leaving Jemma alone with her mother. Her mother crosses the room and sits gently on the bed beside Jemma. “Are you nervous?”

The question has an obvious answer. Of course she’s nervous, she’s terrified. She has to leave everything she knows and is near to her heart tomorrow, and for someone she doesn’t know. Yet she lies, “Only a bit.”

“And you know what to expect?” Her mother asks.

Her stomach twists. She’s heard the speech before, what happens on the wedding night, what is expected of her. She had always imagined it differently, with someone she loved, with someone she cared about. She doesn’t want to imagine it now. She nods.

“Good,” her mother nods absently, staring at the floor. Suddenly she looks up with an intense look in her eyes, she grasps on to Jemma’s hands tightly. “Jemma promise me something.”

“Anything,” Jemma says, clutching on to her mother’s hands.

“Promise me you’ll do everything that’s asked of you. Listen to your husband, do as your told, keep your head down, give him what he wants,” her mother instructs her. “That’s the only way to survive this.”

She hesitates.

“Promise me Jemma,” her mother insists.

“I promise.”

vi.

The wedding is simple.

She has few weddings to compare to. But she supposes that hers is the smallest she’s ever attended. Her family occupies the left side of the chapel, and only fills up a one pew.

However if her family is considered small, her husband’s side is pitiful. There is a smirking older man with a stern older woman in a pressed dress at his side. They must be Mr. Garrett and his wife.

Jemma’s father walks her down the aisle with the music from the organ cues up, and his hands shakes so hard that is Jemma who must keep him steady as they walk towards the tall figure standing at the end of the aisle, who keep his face staring forward and his body angled away from her so that she cannot see his face.

At the end of the aisle, her father passes her off to her husband, and stumbles towards the pew. She keeps her eyes solely focused the minister, though she’s itching to catch of glimpse of the man she must spend her life with now.

She says the words when prompted, promising her life to a man she doesn’t know. And she waits for him to echo her words moments later.

His voice is low and quiet, more of a rumble compared to the minister’s booming tone.

The minister proclaims them man and wife, and the ceremony ends with little fanfare. She panics when they are told to kiss. She had forgotten that part of the ceremony.

Evidently, her husband had not, because he smoothly lifts the heavy veil off her face, giving her first glimpse of him.

He’s handsome, she realizes with a start. Impossibly tall with dark as night hair and dark eyes. She hadn’t expected him to be handsome. His hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a neatly pressed suit. But his face is angular and stern, and it frightens her.

Before she processes his actions, he swiftly ducks towards her and presses a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth.

When he pulls back, and the Minister announces them as husband and wife, no one claps.

(Garrett smiles, though.)

vii.

There is no reception, of course.

After the wedding, her mother hands her a singular trunk with her dresses and meager possessions. Robbie grits his teeth as they say goodbye, and spends the rest of the time glaring at her new husband, who merely ignores it. Mary and Lola tear up, while they cling to her. Barbara (her mother's sister, her aunt, the only family member she has that can make it to the wedding) kisses her softly on the cheek and proclaims her new husband “extremely fetching”. Will's (Aunt Barbara's only son) top lip quivers as they exchange goodbyes, but he’s insistent on remaining as stoic as Robbie seems to be.

Her mother cups her chin and places a soft kiss on her forehead. “I wanted more for you, my dove,” she murmurs in Jemma’s ear before she pulls away.

Her father hangs his head, barely meeting her eyes as he mumbles his goodbyes.

When she reaches the end of the line, she feels a strong hand clap her on the shoulder. She nearly buckles at the weight.

“Shall we go,” a gruff voice asks behind her. She winces at the sound. It's more of a command posing as a question, and she knows that there's only one answer to the question he's posed.

She turns towards the imposing man behind her, who is glancing at his wristwatch. She nods, swallowing thickly. “Of course.” She tightens her hold on her suitcase and spares one last glance at her family. “I’ll be along to visit as soon as I can.” She assures them.

Mary, Lola, Barbara and Will perk up and offer her genuine smiles. But her mother, father and Robbie look doubtful and it breaks her heart.

She tears her eyes away from them and focuses her eyes on her husband. “I’m ready,” she says quietly, ducking her eyes to the floor.

He takes a step towards and she almost wants to glance up at him, but terror keeps her eyes fixed to the floor. He slowly reaches out and takes the suitcase from her tightly clenched hands. She glances up at him, and his dark eyes bore into hers for a split second.

For a second, her entire body freezes and her grip on the suitcase loosens. He pulls it from her and glances towards the Chapel doors. “The car is waiting outside,” he says quietly, moving past her to walk down the aisle.

She doesn’t bother sparing her family another glance; it will only loosen her resolve. She moves to follow her husband, struggling to keep up with his pace because his legs are awfully long, but she doesn’t dare complain.  

She’s never ridden in an automobile, so when the large black and red, pristine and shiny, comes into view, she can’t help the gasp that leaves her mouth. Her husband glances towards her. “Is this—?” She begins before she wisely closes her mouth.

He rolls his eyes before answering, “Yes, you’ll find your husband is quite wealthy and able to take care of you. Now get in the car, it’s a long ride to the city and I still have business to attend to.” He orders, before he slides in leaving her out in the cold, shivering in his wake.

viii.

The ride into the city is strange.

It takes a few minutes for her to adjust to the occasional jostle of the car. But eventually she focuses her attention on the passing surroundings. As they get closer to the city, the dirt roads that she’s grown accustom to become paved roads and tall buildings pressed close together.

“Do you live in the city?” She turns towards her husband who has been uncomfortably quiet the entire ride.

He looks irritated at the question, but he answers. “I’ve got a place on Fifth Avenue. I’m sure you’ll find that it suits your tastes.” He looks amused, as if relishing in a private joke.

Fifth Avenue? She raises an eyebrow at the mention of the famous street. Who is her husband? He must be wealthy to afford a place on Fifth Avenue. She tries to remember if her mother ever mentioned her husband’s name, but she can’t draw up a name. Her face flushes with shame at the thought of her asking her own husband his name.

Mercifully the driver glances back at them. “Straight to the penthouse then, Mr. Ward?”

Ward? She nearly gasps at the name. Surely her husband couldn’t be a Ward. The uptight old money family had been known for their flourishing business and political connections. There is no way a Ward would be associated with Hydra. It simply couldn’t be possible.

“Yes,” her husband says, glancing out the window. “Stick around the front though, I need to drop by,” he glances at her “the juice joint.”

A speakeasy? She nearly squawks at the name. But she swallows her terror, and stares him straight in the face.

“I don’t mind accompanying you on your work.” She offers almost offhandedly, determined to follow her mother's advice from the night before. “If the house is out of your way.”

Her husband raises an eyebrow and looks at her with amusement. There's a challenge in his eyes, and Jemma knows she should back down, this is a fight she cannot win. But she meets his eyes and holds his gaze. He glances at the driver, “You heard what the Dame said, business first.”

ix.

She doesn’t expect her husband to actually take her to the speakeasy.

She expects him to call her on her bluff, as she refuses to admit to the lie so early in their marriage. For heaven’s sake, she’s still in her wedding dress. But her husband watches her with a smirk as they drive into the city and wind down the streets. Her heart is nearly pounding out of her chest by the time they pull up in front of the building.

She glances up at it in awe.

It’s not an obvious place, not like the places she’s imagined. It isn’t rundown and there aren’t criminals loitering around outside the doors. The streets are liter free, and no one stops to stand in front of the red door.

In fact the people that walk past the place (aptly named the Red Door), seem to be straight out of one of the papers. Latest fashion, strings of pearls, fedoras. She feels almost grateful that she hadn’t insisted on stopping to change, her dress wouldn’t seem too out of place amongst these people. However, her brown coat will.

Her cheeks heat with embarrassment as she slowly slips on the coat. Her husband jumps out of the car and rounds the end to open her door for her. She glances up at him in surprise, but he barely acknowledges it as he offers her a hand to help her out.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

He lets go of her hand and places it on the curve of her back, gently guiding her through the door.

(She takes a moment to think about how unorthodox the day has been. She got married to a man who is probably a Ward. She doesn’t even know his first name. He’s part of a mob, and owns a Speakeasy. And she’s entering his speakeasy in her wedding dress.)

It’s afternoon and the place is pretty much empty, except for a man and woman standing by the bar in a pretty heated conversation. It’s a large space, filled to the brim with large circular tables, covered in white table clothes, red centerpieces and china. In the center of the room is a small stage and a rectangular polished dance floor. Everything is furnished, and lush carpet covers the floor. She can’t help but marvel at it.

The man at the bar perks up as they enter and crows out, “Grant, ain’t you look spiffy? We wasn’t expecting you till late.”

The woman, who had been locked in a heated conversation with the man at the bar moments earlier, glances towards them, a spark in her eyes. “And who is this Doll?”

“I finished up early,” her husband deadpans, his eyes narrow, “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing much,” the man explains, “We was just working out Bobbi’s schedule. But it’s all settled now, no need to worry your pretty little head about it.”

Grant rolls his eyes. “Jemma,” he addresses her, “This is Antoine Triplett and Barbara Morse.”

Her eyes widen because it’s the first time he’s addressed her by name, and the way her name flows off his tongue makes her name sound as sweet as honey.

The man smiles at her brightly. “Call me Trip, sweetheart.”

“Bobbi, please,” the woman says brightly, shooting a dark look at Grant. “Barbara is so old fashioned.”

“Trip works the door and Bobbi serves drinks, along with the other girls.” Grant explains off handedly. “Jemma is my wife.”

Trip and Bobbi both glance at him with open mouths.

“Jeez, Grant,” Bobbi speaks first. “When you said you had work to do today, we didn’t think you were going down the middle aisle.”

“Cause it’s none of your beeswax,” Grant snaps, “I just brought her around to introduce her.”

“What’s eating you?” The smile on Trip’s face fades. “We didn’t even know you were seeing someone and now you’re married.”

The irritation fades from Grant’s face and he simply looks passive. “It was quick.” He says shortly. "Only Garrett came."

The expression on there faces clear up and they look at the pair of them sympathetically. Jemma begins to twist towards Grant in confusion. What were they talking about?

“You coming around here in the evening, dollface? Melinda May is preforming tonight and everyone knows she’s got the best voice in the city.” Trip asks her. “Besides, we gotta celebrate your marriage in style.” He soundly claps Grant on the back. Grant flinches and shoots Trip a look but doesn’t say anything.

She glances helplessly at Grant who merely shrugs.

“Don’t look at him,” Bobbi chides. “He can be such a wet blanket.”

“It’ll only be the regulars,” Trip assures her. “Something low key?” He raises an eyebrow at her.

“Okay,” she says slowly, reveling in the irony that her new life would begin in a Speakeasy. It truly was perfect.

“I should get her back,” Grant interjects, placing a hand on her back, steering her towards the exit. “Give her some time to unpack.”

“Sure,” Bobbi drawls. “Just have her back in time, lover boy.”

"Sure thing, Bobbi," Grant says, pulling her away from the pair and leading her out the door.

x.

She can’t help but be a bit floored when she enters Grant’s penthouse.

It’s bigger than she imagines, bigger than she imagines any apartment to be. Tall ceilings, marble furnishings, luxurious furniture. Standing near the door is a plump matronly woman that introduces herself as Mrs. Tucker and offers to start a bath for Jemma before she putters off, lugging along Jemma’s suitcase.

While she’s gaping at the rows of books lining the bookshelves against the wall, Grant speaks up. “I had the guest room made up for you. You’ll stay there.”

“Oh,” she whirls towards him in surprise. She can’t say she isn’t relieved that he’s putting her up in a separate room. “Thank you.”

He nods. “I’ll just be in the study. We’ll leave in a few hours.”

She nods, watching him stride out of the room. Just before he exits, a thought occurs to her. “Uh, Mr. Ward,” she speaks up shyly. “I don’t mean to be bothersome, it’s just I don’t know what to wear to a Speakeasy and I’m afraid I don’t have the right attire.”

He freezes, his back towards her, posture tense. “I’m sure Mrs. Tucker will find something suitable for you. I had her purchase a few dresses for you. You can acquire more if those don’t suit your tastes.”

Her cheeks flush and she murmurs a soft, “Thank you.”

“And Jemma,” he glances towards her, an unreadable expression on his face. “Call me Grant.”

Then he strides out of the room, leaving her gaping in his wake.

xi.  

It turns out that Mrs. Tucker is quite the talker, and her favorite subject happens to be Grant Ward.

“Oh when Mr. Ward said he was bringing home a bride,” Mrs. Tucker sighs as Jemma steps out of the bath, tucking a silk bathrobe tightly around her body. “I could hardly believe it. I thought it’d be one of those flappers. You know,” Mrs. Tucker looks at her conspiratorially, lowering her voice an octave, “the gold diggers.”

“Oh,” Jemma raises an eyebrow at her.

“Not that you’re a gold digger, dear.” Mrs. Tucker assures her quickly. “You don’t look the type.”

Jemma successfully resists the urge to snort.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Tucker continues on. “I had worried. Mr. Ward doesn’t get out nearly as much as he should; any marriage so quickly in any courtship is nearly unheard of. But you, my dear, seem like just the thing Mr. Ward.”

She doubts that, but she wisely doesn’t speak on the matter. Instead she changes the subject to her attire. “Grant tells me that you might know what I should wear tonight.”

Mrs. Tucker’s eyes narrow on her. “Nothing daring,” she muses. She pulls open a dresser in the corner and rummages through it, until she finds the dress she’s looking for. She holds up for Jemma’s approval. It’s a cream colored dress that falls well below the knee. It’s nearly full sleeved and covered in printed flowers. It is elegant and chic, but the nearly see through fabric on the arms makes it the most daring thing Jemma’s ever worn.

She can’t help the gasp that leaves her lips. “Oh it’s gorgeous,” she admits, fingering the material.

“There’s a wonderful white coat that will go well with this.” Mrs. Tucker smiles in satisfaction. “I’m so pleased you like it, Mrs. Ward. Mr. Ward picked it out for you himself.”

Jemma’s head snaps up at the declaration. Grant had picked the dress out.

“Of course you know that Mr. Ward has great taste,” Mrs. Tucker continues on conversationally. “You saw that wonderful wedding dress.”

“Grant sent that?” She exhales sharply.

Mrs. Tucker’s brows furrow in confusion. “You didn’t know?”

Jemma can only manage a weak shake of her head.

xii.

He glances up at her as she walks towards him, incredibly self-conscious in the heels Mrs. Tucker forced her into. His eyes widen imperceptibly, and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to comment on the dress. She finds herself wanting him to think she’s beautiful. He picked out the dress after all, wouldn’t he expect her to look nice in it.

But he merely clears his throat and glances down at his wristwatch. “Come on,” he says, walking towards the door. “We’re going to be late.”

They aren’t late, but by the time they get to the Red Door, things are already in full swing.

Trip lets out a loud whoop when they come into view. “Don’t you look mighty beautiful tonight, Mrs. Ward?”

She feels her cheeks redden, and averts her eyes. “Please call me Jemma,” she insists.

Trip gives out a short laugh, “Sure darling, now you both head on in there before Melinda May comes out.” He glances at Grant. “Skye was late again, but she told me to tell you she was five minutes early.” He smirks. “I thought you should know.”

Grant rolls his eyes. “Do me a favor tell me when she actually is early. I’ll assume until then that she’s late.”

Trip chuckles and lets them past.

The tables are mostly filled with elegantly dress woman who laugh loudly and drink as strongly as the men who sit next to them looking slightly bemused by the sight.

Grant steers her towards the tightly packed bar, and she quickly assures him that she doesn’t want anything to drink. He stares at her strangely. “There’s someone you should meet,” he explains shortly as the crowd thins out to reveal slightly exhausted looking man with closely cropped hair and a brunette leaning over the bar to speak to him. They both look up at Grant and her as they approach and recognition sparks in their eyes.

“Hunter, Skye,” he addresses them. “I’d like you both to meet my wife, Jemma.”

“It’s Lance to you, doll,” the man winks at her. Grant’s hold on her back tightens ever so slightly.

The brunette, Skye, perks up and pulls her into a tight hug. “It’s so good to finally meet you, Jemma.”

“Finally?” Grant raises an eyebrow at her.

Skye pulls back and shoots him a look. “I can’t believe you introduced her to Bobbi before me.” She says, slapping Grant lightly on the chest.

Grant simply shrugs. “You weren’t here, because you were late.”

Skye averts her eyes. “You make a good point Bossman, now if you’ll excuse me, I should probably get back to my job.” She grabs the tray laden with drinks and heads towards the table in the left corner.

Grant shakes his head and turns back to Lance. “Garrett’s dropping by tonight,” Grant informs him. “Have the usual ready, Bobbi’s waiting on them tonight.”

Lance gives a short nod, “Right-o.” He pauses for a moment. “And May? What about her?”

Grant’s expression grew a bit darker. “His business here tonight won’t last that long. I’ll speak with her on the matter.”

Lance nods and grabs a glass off the counter. “A drink for the pretty lady?” He smiles at her.

Just as Jemma begins to protest, Grant nods and sits her on a stool at the bar with the instructions, “Keep an eye on her, I’ll just be a moment.”

As Grant strides away, Jemma looks at Lance helplessly.

“I wouldn’t think much on it,” Lance informs her. “He does it to all of us.” He slides the glass in front of her. “Now drink, it’s a party after all.”

By the end of her first drink, Jemma begins to loosen up and Lance keeps her well entertained with comical comments about the folks around them. Skye joins them often and her comments bounce well off Lance’s. They have her in stitches within moments.

Despite the laughter, it’s hard not to notice Garrett’s entrance. It’s like a chill enters the room. Lance and Skye instantly quiet and avert their eyes, as if they didn’t want to be caught staring.

Jemma risks a glance at the man who traded her life for money.

He makes his way to a booth in the back of room, stopping every few feet to exchange pleasantries with one of the patrons. He smiles charmingly at Bobbi, who seems mostly unfazed by the whole thing. Just as his eyes float towards her, she quickly glances back at Lance and Skye.

“Does he do business here often?” She asks the pair of them delicately.

Skye and Lance exchange looks. “The Red Room is a particularly frequent haunt of Mr. Garrett.” Skye says slowly, giving Jemma a meaningful look.

“Basically get used to seeing him around her,” Lance says with a sympathetic glance. “You stay out of his way, and he’ll leave you alone.”

Jemma doubts that. She had left him alone, before he married her off to Grant. Either way, Garrett is not anyone she wanted to acquaint herself with.

Before she could voice that opinion, Bobbi interrupts them. “Tell me you have,” she begins before Lance waves her off and hands her a large tray filled with drinks. “Thanks Hunter, you’re a doll.” She blows him an airkiss. Then she pauses and her face sours. “Also he asked for you to refill Jemma’s glass, it’s on him.”

Jemma glances towards Garrett who leers at her. She plasters what she hopes is a smile and nods her head in gratitude at him. When she turns back, Bobbi, Lance and Skye stare at her in amazement.

“Maybe you’ll survive us just yet, Jemma.” Bobbi says with a soft smile. “Now hand me that drink tray before Sitwell throws a hissy fit over the fact that the ice has begun to melt.

xiv.

When Grant gets back, she's still nursing the drink Garrett sent over to her. He glances at her quickly before turning his attention to Lance.

“Garrett’s here,” Lance says to Grant who nods sharply.

“I’ll go over and see if he needs anything.” Grant tells him. “He say anything?”

“Just wanted me to fix up a drink for your moll.” Lance says.

Grant’s jaw clenches and he shoots a look at Jemma. “Did she drink it?”

Lance shrugs. “She was polite about it, very diplomatic. You got a keeper, Grant.”

Grant mumbles something under his breath, and turns back to her. “I need to take care of some stuff. Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

She wants to protest and claim that she could do as she wished. But this isn’t the place for insolence. She nods and sits back on the barstool, as Grant walks towards Garrett.

She watches their interaction closely. When her mother explained whom she was marrying, it had seemed like she was going to be married off to Garrett’s right hand man. However, watching them interact, there is an underlying tension that Jemma can’t put her finger on. Garrett claps Grant on the back and smiles at him, but Grant doesn’t engage in the friendly conversation. Garrett doesn’t look entirely fazed though, and Jemma can’t hear what is being said, but there’s something almost sinister in Garrett’s expression towards the end of their conversation.

“Oh,” Lance interrupts her musings, drawing her attention back to him. “May’s coming on.”

Standing in the center of the dance floor, radiating under the spotlight is a beautiful curvaceous woman in a silky silver dress. Jemma nearly gasps at the sight. She curves her hands around the silver microphone as the pianist begins to tinker out the opening notes of the song.

When she starts singing, nearly every lingering voice in the Speakeasy ceases. Every eye is focused on Melinda May crooning out _Spoonful of Love_.

At the end of the first song, Jemma can’t help but applaud wildly along with the rest of the crowd. “She’s fantastic,” she comments to Lance.

Lance nods knowingly. “We’re real lucky to have her. She’s gotten better offers, you know? She’s real loyal to Grant though. Says she doesn’t care about the money, she only works for the Red Door. There ain’t many like Melinda May. She’s the bee’s knees.”

Jemma nods along, sparing Grant and Garrett another look. Grant is now sitting stoically beside Garrett, and another man had joined their table. “What’s going on?” She asks Lance, knowing that it probably isn’t her place to know, but the curiosity takes over.

Lance glances over and shrugs. “Garrett probably wants Grant to sit in on his business tonight. Ward’s pretty intimidating, he usually works better than whatever muscle Garrett has to hire.”

She feels slight ill at the thought.

Lance looks at her knowingly. “You know, he used to be a lot more in to it, but lately he’s changed,” he eyes her carefully. “Maybe you had something to do with it.”

She doubts it, they’ve only known each other for a day. Yet she nods along with Lance’s suggestion.

There’s a commotion suddenly, when the man sitting across from Grant and Garrett suddenly sits up and shouts, “You can’t do this to me.”

The entire club quiets, even Melinda May trails off into a hum, looking at the table questioningly.

Garrett looks irritated, and despite being in the far corner of the club, his voice carries. “Shut your trap, you’re disrupting the lovely Melinda May.” He gives a pointed look at Melinda who simply starts up the song with gusto. Despite that, everyone in the club continues to hang on to his every word. “You took money from me, and now you gotta pay it back. I don’t see what’s so unreasonable about that.”

“But I can’t pay it back,” the man begs.

Jemma has a flash of her own father. Her father must have begged with Garrett like this man does. She wonders how easily her father agreed to Garrett’s proposal. Was Grant there? Did he watch as her father tearfully agreed to marry off his eldest daughter to him?

“Then you have to pay the price,” Garrett’s voice is so low, she can barely hear him.

Two of Garrett’s men grab the man and begin to drag him out of the club. His voice rises until it’s nearly a shrill scream, and slowly the patrons avert their eyes, focusing on Melinda May who starts up a more upbeat number.

Jemma knows she should glance away. If anyone catches her looking at Hydra business, she’ll be next. But her eyes are solely focused on Grant, the way he observes everything with a stoic expression. He’s not particularly moved by the man begging for his life, but he doesn’t look thrilled the way Garrett does either. And she doesn’t know whether to be pleased her husband isn’t bloodthirsty, or disappointed that he won’t say anything to stop the men.

She averts her eyes at the queasy thought.

“Here,” Lance says, a knowing look in his eyes, sliding in a glass of darker liquid towards her. "You'll need it."

She takes a tentative sip. It’s stronger than anything he’s given her, and she’s careful to take only a small sip. She doesn’t think her husband would take too kindly to her drinking too much.

“Thanks,” she sighs, looking out to the dance floor.

It’s already crowded with a few couples, swinging around to the beat of the piano and Melinda May’s voice. When she was younger, she had hoped for a fairytale marriage. Where her husband would court her first, maybe take her dancing. Then when he told her he loved her and she reciprocated, he'd approach her father asking permission to marry her. Once her father happily agreed, he'd propose to her. She'd say yes, of course.

That would never happen now.

Grant leans up against the bar, interrupting her musing, and before he can open his mouth, Lance slides a glass of brownish liquid towards him, much darker than her own. Grant catches it smoothly and downs it in one gulp.

Skye reappears, slamming down a heavy tray of empty glasses with a huff. Grant eyes her and she winces, and then shrugs. “You gonna take your girl out there and show her some city moves?” She asks with an eyebrow raised.

Jemma instantly opens her mouth to protest as Grant rolls his eyes.

“I betcha didn’t even have your first dance as a married couple, and that’s unacceptable.” Skye exclaims.

“Unacceptable, eh?” Lance asks her with an affectionate smile.

“Definitely, it ain’t official until you twirl her around the floor.” Skye smiles at the pair of them brightly.

“Actually,” Lance leans forward with a smirk and a scandalous look in his eyes. “It ain’t official until the marriage is—.”

“Don’t be crass,” Skye cuts him off sharply. Then she turns back to Grant and her, and gives them a little push. “Come on, I’ll get Melinda May to sing you something special.”

As Skye skips off, Jemma turns towards Grant, ready to tell him that she’s completely alright with finding somewhere to sit down and ignoring Skye entirely, but Grant’s staring down at her impassively. “Shall we?” He asks gruffly.

Meekly she turns and walks towards the floor, Grant’s hand is back on the curve of her back, leading her through the crowd.  

“Do you know how to do the Fox Trot?” He asks her softly, turning her to face him as they reached the dance floor.

“What?” She asks nervously, glancing at the couples around them.

“Never mind,” he murmurs, “just follow my lead.”

He guides her hands into place, one on his shoulder and the other laces through his fingers and is held up in line with their shoulders. His other hand wraps around her back.

Jemma can barely focus on the song Skye chooses for them, she keeps her eyes solely focused on Grant’s feet, trying to mirror his movements so she doesn’t accidentally step on his toes. It shouldn’t matter, but their first dance as a married couple shouldn’t end because she maimed her husband.

“Look at me,” he says insistently.

“I’m trying to make sure I don’t step on you,” Jemma says, keeping her eyes focused on her feet.

“Well you look ridiculous,” he snaps impatiently.

Her eyes flicker up to meet his. He doesn’t look to irritated, but he’s staring down at her so intensely, she desperately wants to pull away from his gaze, but she finds that she can’t.

“Do you trust me?”

No, of course not, she wants to tell him, they just met this morning after all.

But his gaze is more powerful than she cares to admit. “Yes,” she says almost breathlessly.

Before she can refute herself, he drops the hand from her back and quickly spins her in one, two, three, circles before letting her go very suddenly.

She starts to fall backwards, and it’s so fast that she doesn’t have the opportunity to scream.

Before she can hit the floor, his arms wrap around her waist and hold her securely, nearly level to the floor. The breath leaves her chest in one sharp gasp, as his eyes bore into hers. She feels herself gravitate towards him, as if he had the power to pull her towards him by his eyes.

All around them, patrons let out delighted, drunken shrieks of delight, shocking her back into reality.

He rights her quickly, and for a second, he looks as shaken as she feels.

“We should go,” he says softly.

She’s never agreed with anything more.

xv.

They don’t leave immediately.

Grant deposits her back at the Bar while he finishes up his errands for the night.

Wisely, Lance doesn’t comment on her dance with Grant. But Skye comes up and nudges her a few times and adds a wink for emphasis. Jemma tries not to feel too shocked about the whole thing.

By the time Grant escorts her out of the speakeasy, she’s exhausted and the night is winding down. Lance is closing up the bar, and Skye helps him wipe down the glasses. Bobbi hugs her tightly and asks her to swing by more often. Trip winks and offers his congratulations, before opening the door for them.

The ride back to the apartment is quiet, and Jemma nearly falls asleep against the leather seats, letting the steady hum of the engine lull her to sleep. At one point her eyes open slightly to see Grant staring at her with an unrecognizable expression on his face. But she's sure she imagines it.

She wakes up at the shuddering halt of the car in front of the building.

Grant barely glances at her as he offers a hand to help her out of the car. As soon as she’s out, the hand drops quickly and he strides towards the building, not bothering to wait to see if she’s following him.

As she nearly has to run to catch up with him, she worries what will happen when she gets to their apartment. He’s putting her up in the guest bedroom, but for how long? Or was that just for the evening?

Her mother’s words about duty and responsibility are ringing in her ears by the time they reach the apartment. _'Give him what he wants'_ she commands herself, willing her body not to lurch at the thought.

Grant pushes through the door and makes his way down a dark hallway. His shoulders are tense and his movements are jerky, almost as if some sort of rage is possessing him.

Unsure of what to do, she moves to follow him.

They’re nearly half way down the hallway before he turns sharply to tower over her.

She can’t move as fast as him and ends up colliding with his very solid chest. She quickly regains her footing and steps away from him.

“What are you doing?” He growls, his eyes flashing.

In his anger, he seems to be taller than ever, she shrinks under his glare.

“I’m not sure,” she begins meekly, “I didn’t know where to go.”

She can actually hear his teeth grind under the pressure of his jaw. “You go to your bedroom,” he snarls, taking a step towards her. “I shouldn’t have to tell you what to do, are you a child?”

She shakes her head vigorously, stumbling a step backwards. “I just thought,” she says slowly, her mind racing. She glances around for an exit, somewhere to run to.

“You thought what?” He attacks her viciously. “You thought that just because we’re married, because I took you out, because we danced, that I would want you in bed with me.”

The venom in his voice paralyzes her.

“Get one thing straight, _Jemma_.” She’s never heard her name said with so much hatred. It's such a stark contrast from the way he introduced her earlier at the Speakeasy. “We may be _married_ ,” he says derisively, “but this thing between us,” he gestures between them, “it’s nothing but a business deal. You mean nothing to me.”

His words nearly knock her flat to the ground. She stares up at him with watery eyes, wondering how someone could be so cruel. She had no delusions about the lack of love, even respect, in their marriage. But she thought that maybe he couldn’t be so bad, even if he is associated with someone like Garrett, he had seemed decent, almost kind.

She was wrong. He is horrible.

For a moment, something flickers through his eyes, and she thinks that he’s going to say something more. She braces herself for the verbal assault he’s sure to let loose. She cringes and closes her eyes.

But only silence follows.

When she slowly cracks her eyes open to glance at him, there’s only darkness in his place


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes things get better. 
> 
> Then again, sometimes things get worse. Much, much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you might have been expecting something else from me, but in my defense, my muse is a fickle bitch, and I cannot get this story out of my head. 
> 
> Anywho we're getting to some of the serious stuff real soon, so I'm going to leave a bulk of my author's notes for the end. Please read them if you want a bit more background on scenes and such. 
> 
> Enjoy!

i.

There are parts of married life that Jemma comes to expect over time.

First there is the solitude.

Grant makes it perfectly clear that her presence isn’t welcome in his life, and though it stings initially, she finds herself oddly grateful that her husband wants to ignore her as much as she loathes his presence. It makes everything quiet easy, as she doesn't have to hold herself to anyone's standards or expectations but her own. She spends most of her time in her room, and Mrs. Tucker is willing to bring her meals to her at odd hours so that she can avoid her husband all together, though the older woman does it with a disapproving frown that Jemma pretends to ignore as she graciously thanks Mrs. Tucker for her service.

However she grew up around a very large family, and Grant’s apartment, despite the large number of cooks and servants is generally quiet and cold.

Second there is the ever so subtle reminder of what Grant’s business really is. She’s grateful that Grant keeps his associates out of the house, and she can exist in blissful ignorance. But ever so often, one of Garrett’s men will swing by the house asking to see Grant. Usually she sends one of the servants to go fetch Grant and offers to show the man to the sitting room and scurries out of sight the moment that Grant steps into the room, a dour look in his face.

Most of the men are respectful and keep their distance, but there are men that leer at her like a predator about to pounce, and it is those men that make send her running down the hallway to face her husband’s wrath.

(She may despise him, but with him in the room, no one dares even glance at her.)

Mario Gotti, Garrett’s contact with the Italian Mafia, is a regular, and unfortunately, the worst.

He saunters through the door, right past her, a smirk on his face. “How you doin’ doll face?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gotti,” she says, casting her eyes downwards, she closes the door softly behind him, cursing herself for opening it inside of letting one of the servants handle it.

“How many times do I tell you to call me Mario?” He chides playfully. He takes a step towards her, reaching out for her hand.

She steps out of his reach quickly, recognizing the maneuver from a trick he had pulled earlier and stumbles down the hallway. “I’ll go fetch my husband for you,” she calls out over his shoulder, trying to keep her voice level.

Grant is predictably irritated when he opens the door to his study after she’s knocked. She isn’t fazed much by the perpetual scowl on his face, and merely informs him that Mr. Gotti is here to see him.

(She feels more like a butler than a wife, in that moment.)

She expects him to push past her and stride away, leaving her behind, as he usually does, but this time he pauses and stares at her.

“Does he give you any trouble?” He asks slowly. There’s a dark undercurrent in his voice that makes Jemma shiver.

“What are you talking about?”

“Normally you have one of the servants come and fetch me, but with Gotti, you usually come and get me yourself. That means you can’t stand to be around him, which isn’t a surprise, not many people can. But I’ve seen you get along with Pedro, who is perhaps the most annoying person I’ve ever met. So,” he concludes quickly. “Is he bothering you?”

It’s probably the most he’s ever spoken in her presence, and it nearly strikes her speechless.

But Grant is staring at her insistently, so she quickly finds her voice. “He stares at me strangely, and makes some comments. But it’s nothing,” she brushes off quickly, glancing down at the floor.

There’s a beat of silence before he grabs her hand tightly in his own and marches her down the hallway. She’s too caught off guard to protest, and follows after him dumbstruck, letting him drag her behind him like a rag doll.

Gotti’s face breaks into a smile when Grant steps out of the dark hallway, and then falls a bit when she stumbles in after him.

Grant drops her hand and steps towards Gotti, towering over him. For a moment, Jemma thinks that Grant is going to take a swing at him. But he simply murmurs something in a low voice that Jemma can’t quiet catch, but she thinks it must be a threat, because Gotti’s face blanches and he nods along furiously.

Grant glances at her and offers her a soft, uncharacteristic smile, and then says, “We’ll be along in a moment, dear. Mr. Gotti and I have some business to discuss.”

Gotti doesn’t even glance at her once as Grant shuffles him into the room.

There are parts of marriage that Jemma has come to expect.

But there are parts of marriage that still shock her.

Or maybe its just there are parts of Grant that she still doesn’t understand.

ii.

The loneliness is occasionally broken by Skye or Bobbi stopping by to say hello.

It’s a bit startling at first. Bobbi and Skye are so lively and rambunctious, and the ever-proper Mrs. Tucker is all frowns around the pair. But Jemma genuinely enjoys their company. And she is so grateful for the distraction from the cold empty apartment.

The girls are terrible gossips and within a matter of weeks, she learns that Bobbi and Lance used to have a thing, but it didn’t work out and they’re just friends now. Skye and Lance are together now, and Skye thinks that Lance wants to propose, but she doesn’t know how she feels about that.

“I mean I love him of course,” Skye muses. “But marriage is a whole different thing. And you know, Jemma, they say nowadays a girl doesn’t have to get married if she doesn’t want to. And I don’t know if I want to. It's just such a drag, you know?”

(Jemma thinks Skye’s being a bit facetious, after all she’s seen the way that Skye looks at Lance.)

They also drag her down the Red Door on occasion. She usually manages to beg off. She doesn’t want to run into Grant more than she has to. But the girls are more than persistent and she usually finds herself nursing a drink at the bar with Lance and the rest of the group.

Grant isn’t exactly fond of the occurrence, but he doesn’t get a chance to express his disapproval because he’s currently ignoring her as well.

It turns out to be a good thing that the girls bring her along, because on her third night in the Red Door, she meets Fitz again.

She doesn’t know how she goes on so long without catching sight of him, but she knew that the piano player looked familiar, and when she asks about him, Skye drags him out to introduce them. Turns out, no introductions are necessary.

He stutters and stammers at the sight of her, and his face grows imperceptibly hard when Skye mentions that she’s Grant’s new wife.

He doesn’t say anything when everyone is watching them closely, mercifully, merely mumbles out his congratulations. He waits until everyone else is distracted.

“I didn’t want this for you,” he murmurs as the group listens to Skye telling another story about a drunk patron.

“I know,” she says softly, patting him on the hand. “It wasn’t your fault.”

His jaw clenches. “This wouldn’t have happened if you married me.” He doesn’t sound too upset with her, more regretful.

She can understand that, though her stomach turns at the mention of his proposal. “Perhaps,” she muses. “But then Mr. Garrett would have tried to marry off Mary to my husband, and,” she sighs at the thought, “I’d rather it be me. Besides you didn’t love me anyway,” she says jokingly, trying to play it off.

Something hardens in his eyes, and he turns away from her. “I should get going, Melinda is going to want to do a run through,” he says shortly, backing away from her.

She wants to say something, but the words stick in her throat. She knows he’s cross with her suddenly, but she can’t imagine why. It couldn't be something she said, after all, she had merely spoken the truth.

Skye protests on her behalf, but Fitz begs off, stomping away from the group.

“Wonder what’s got him all balled up?” Lance comments absently.

iii.

The thing that eventually happens as a result of spending more time with Skye and Bobbi, is that she eventually finds out more about Hydra than she wishes to know. It’s not that she isn’t curious, so she ends up listening to them despite herself when the subject comes up in their discussions.

The information comes in bits and pieces, and normally it is simply complaints about Garrett’s guys feeling them up, so she doesn’t learn much that she doesn’t already know. She usually sympathizes with their complaints and let them talk about it for as long as they need to, before the subject switches to something else.

The day that Jemma admits to Bobbi and Jemma that Garrett orchestrated her marriage, is the day she finds out what she wants to know.

Skye stares at her open mouthed, as if she couldn’t believe what she is hearing, while Bobbi’s face is more sympathetic as she admits that she knew the moment Grant brought her to see them.

Skye shakes her head ruefully, admitting that she didn’t know. “I knew Grant does everything Garrett tells him to, but I didn’t realize,” she trails off absently.

“Why?” Jemma can’t help but ask. Both women turn towards her in unison. “I mean,” she stutters, trying to recover herself. “He is a Ward, right? He doesn’t need the money.” She suddenly hopes that she isn’t wrong about her hypothesis about Grant’s family; otherwise it would be incredibly embarrassing.

Bobbi ponders on this for a moment, before she speaks. “Do you know about Grant’s family? About the Wards, I mean?”

“Only the bits of piece I see in the papers,” she admits a bit sheepishly, ashamed to admit that she knows little about her husband's family. “He doesn’t like to talk about them.”

Actually, he doesn’t like to talk about anything, especially to her, but that part isn’t necessary for the girls to know.

“Well,” Bobbi says slowly, glancing at Skye. “I don’t know much about them myself. But Trip told me that that he is estranged from his family.”

“Trip says he ran away from home when he was young.” Skye jumps in eagerly. “We don’t know why, he won’t talk about it, and Trip won’t say, but it’s got to be god awful for him to leave all that money, don’t you say?”

Bobbi shots Skye a chiding look before continuing. “Anyway, I guess he came across Garrett right after he ran, and Garrett made him the offer that he makes all his boys. Do what he says and he’ll take care of you. He must have been in bad shape to take the offer,” Bobbi says almost sympathetically. “No one takes an offer from Hydra unless they’re blood thirsty or they really need the money.”

Jemma nods along, her head swirling at the information. Was it possible that Grant enjoyed working for Garrett? Or could it be possible that Grant was as trapped as her father when it came to their marriage?

If he was trapped, he made his choices. He isn’t like her, not really. He may be trapped, but it was of his own doing.

Bobbi probably sees something in her face because she continues quickly. “This probably doesn’t mean much,” she reaches out and grasps Jemma’s hand in her own. “But I’ve known Grant for a long time, and maybe he felt okay with helping Garrett in the beginning, but I’ve never seen him kill anyone or do anything wrong. He just runs the Red Door.”

That settles the churning in her stomach, but it doesn't ease her completely. “It’s illegal to sell alcohol,” Jemma reminds Bobbi.

Bobbi leans back in her chair and smirks. “That doesn’t stop anyone from drinking it.”

iv.

One of the things that inevitably comes along with living with Grant, is the occasional surprise over his wealth.

The apartment is huge and she spends days just exploring the rooms and hallways. It's not endless of course, but she does manage to discover something knew every day. The best day is the day that she dares to enter Grant's study. She spends a whole day analyzing the contents of private library and declares them spectacularly. He does have wonderful taste in books. However, out of all his possessions, one of the many things that fascinates her, is the telephone.

They didn’t have a telephone at her old house, and it occurs to her that the quickest way to communicate with her family is to convince them to purchase a telephone and call them. She's been conversing with them through letters, but letters take so long, and if anything ever happened, it could be weeks, even months, before she knew. But a telephone is an expense that she’s not quite sure her parents can swing, also she doesn’t know how to ask Grant if she can use the telephone.

Eventually she settles on simply giving her parents the number in one of her letters, telling them to only use it in emergencies. She doesn’t tell Grant she does so, and if they call he will definitely be surprised, but she’s sure that it would be for a good enough reason that he wouldn’t begrudge her one call.

So three weeks after she sends her letter, when Grant strides into the sitting room where she’s having tea and glancing through one of the books Bobbi lent her, and he looks half confused and half irritated as he informs her that there’s a phone call for her, her mind instantly jumps to the worst possible conclusion.

As she follows him down the hallway, her mind leaps from thought to thought. If anyone is ill, it’s most likely her father, his health has always been in poor condition, and the stress of owing Garrett money and subsequently having to marry his eldest daughter off to pay off his debts, had done a number on him. If it isn’t her father, it would most likely be Will. He had been a sickly baby, and he’d grown out of the constant sickness, but occasionally came down with a horrid cold.

Or it could be injury, which could happen to any of them, she supposes.

If anything happened to her father or mother, she would have to leave for home instantly. She would have to help care for whoever is injured or sick while her other parent continued to help the family financially. The only problem is that she has to ask Grant to let her leave. As her husband, he could forbid her from leaving. He couldn't prevent her from leaving the house, of course, but without his approval and subsequently his money she would have no way of getting home. But he is as eager as her to rid himself of her presence, so she thinks he’ll agree quite happily.

If it is one of the children, she wouldn’t have quite a good excuse. Her mother is more than capable of caring for injury or sickness. At most, she could manage to excuse herself for a quick visit.

When she lifts the phone to her ear, she can barely manage a breathy, “Hello.”

“Jemma,” her father’s voice crows loudly over the static filled line. “By golly, it’s actually her,” his voice is muffled for a moment; she assumes he’s speaking to someone standing beside him. “Can you hear me dear?”

At least her father isn’t hurt or sick. “Yes, father,” she says. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh we’re fine, darling. We got your letter a few days ago and we thought we’d try that number you sent us out.” He says happily.

She struggles to bite back her frustration. “Father, I gave you the number for emergencies.”

“Oh, I know,” he brushes her off easily. “But little Lola here has been dying to speak to you.”

Her heart melts at the mention of Lola. She misses her family like a crays, and she’s itching at the mention of Lola. “Where are you phoning from?” She asks, unable to temper her curiosity, though she knows she should have her father hang up.

“Oh,” her father says distractedly, “Ol’ Blake let us use his phone.”

“Mr. Blake,” she asks incredulously, “The grocer? He’s letting you use his phone for free?”

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“Don’t you worry about that,” her father continues quickly, “Here’s Lola.”

She wants to say more, but there’s a scuffling on the other end of the line when her father puts down the receiver and hoists Lola up in his arms.

“Jemma,” a girlish voice giggles over the line.

“Hey there, LoLo,” she says softly, “How are you doing?”

“I’m good,” she draws out. “How are you?”

“I’m really good,” she says, the lie flows off her lips so easily she almost believes it. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Lola giggles. Then she pauses as another voice from far away speaks. “Jemma, Daddy says we have to go.”

“Oh,” Jemma feels her heart drop a bit, despite herself. “Okay, sweetheart. I’ll write you a letter soon, okay? I promise.”

Lola makes a sound of delight. “And can we call you?”

Jemma pauses.

“Oh please Jemma, we all miss you loads, and Robbie, Mary, Will, Auntie Barbara and Mama really want to hear you too. Daddy only let me come today, but he says we can all come the next time.”

For the first time since they entered the room, Jemma glances at Grant. He’s staring at her strangely, like he’s seeing her for the first time. And honestly, she had almost forgotten that he was standing beside her. He gives her a small, almost imperceptible, nod.

“Sure, Lola,” she says into the receiver, smiling widely.

Lola squeals, and then her voice breaks off her for a second, and Jemma can almost hear her father tell Lola it’s time to go. “Bye Jemma,” she almost screeches.

Jemma sighs into the receiver. “Bye Lola.”

As she hangs up the receiver, she turns towards Grant, sure that he’s going to give it to her for giving her family his number. Instead, he’s still staring at her with that strange expression.

“You miss your family?” He asks slowly, as if the words were unfamiliar to him.

“Of course,” she says, a bit surprised he hasn’t realized that. “I’ve lived with them my whole life and I haven’t seen them since we’ve gotten married.”

He’s quiet for a moment, considering her words. For a moment, she wonders if she’s spoken out of turn and she’s about to open her mouth to apologize, but he interrupts her. “You can call them whenever you want.” He says finally.

Her surprise increases. Grant stares at her for a moment longer, before he turns sharply and makes his way to the door. Something seizes her chest and she can’t just let him leave it at that, so she takes a jerky step forwards and calls out to him. “Wait!”

He pauses, his head half turned towards her, hand hovering over the doorknob.

“I just,” she says thickly, clearing her throat, before continuing. “I just wanted to tell you, thank you,” she says sincerely.

He looks taken aback for a moment, but he recovers quickly. “You’re welcome,” he says stiffly.

And then he’s gone.

v.

After finding out that Fitz works at the Red Door, it’s easier for Jemma to find more reasons to spend time with the group that she’s slowly starting to consider as her new family.

Trip usually greets her with a large smile and a hug, Lance slides over a glass of whatever he’s testing out that week as his signature drink, Skye and Bobbi fill her in on everything she had missed, and Fitz drops everything to sit by her side.

She misses her family like a bellyache, but spending time at the Red Door soothes that.

It’s also interesting to see her husband in a new light. At the Red Door, it’s a bit more difficult to avoid him. Although Bobbi and Skye know the truth about their relationship, they don’t quite know the circumstances at home. They know that things are difficult, but they keep encouraging her to make things work.

“Mr. Ward’s a prickly bastard,” Skye says earnestly. “But he really isn’t all that bad.”

Bobbi is more subtle about her efforts, constantly trying to lure Grant into their conversations and subsequently trapping Jemma and Grant into awkward silences when she asks Jemma’s opinion on Grant’s previous statement.

For the most part, Jemma appreciates their efforts. They care about her; they want her to be happy. They’re doing their part to make it work.

If only Grant were the same.

vi.

“Mr. Ward is calling for you,” Mrs. Tucker says, poking her head into Jemma’s room.

Jemma glances up from the book in her lap. “What does he want?”

Mrs. Tucker shrugs. “Not quite sure, Miss.”

Jemma ponders this for a moment. Things had been somewhat better between her and Grant after the incident with the Telephone. Perhaps he had begun to see her as an actual person. Or maybe, he is softening to her presence. Either way, he no longer avoided her like a plague, but he’s still not speaking to her more than he absolutely has to.

(There is still a tension between them that she can’t quite explain. And a thudding in her heart whenever he comes into her view, like her heart is trying to race out of her chest whenever he comes into view. She’s not quite sure if this is a good thing, or a bad thing.)

“Please let him know, I’ll be along in a moment.”

Mrs. Tucker nods before backing out of the room.

Jemma places the book on her dresser, only a shade regretful to leave it half finished. Grant has a marvelous collection of novels, and while she isn’t quite sure if he’s read any of them, maybe they were for decoration. But she admires them greatly.

She glances in the mirror and soothes down her hair and dress, making sure that she looks presentable. Her mother would skin her alive if went to see her husband looking like she just tumbled out of bed.

Grant is waiting for her in the sitting room, pacing the length of the room with an unreadable expression on his face. He looks up in surprise when she enters the room, even though he summoned her.

“Mrs. Tucker said you asked for me?” She asks.

“Oh erm,” he clears his throat uncomfortably, looking bemused for a moment. Then his face clears and a look of determination crosses over his face. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me for dinner?”

It’s more of a suggestion than a statement, as if he thought it was possible that she would refuse the suggestion. In their short period of marriage, they hadn’t dined together once. Grant usually ate late or outside, and Jemma didn’t bother to wait for him after that first wretched night.

“Oh,” she says softly in surprise. It would be incredibly easy to refuse his offer. After all, he is the one who pushed her away in the first place. However, he is making an effort, and she can’t begrudge him that. “Alright.”

In an uncharacteristic move, he offers her the crook of his elbow, and to her credit, Jemma only hesitates for a second, before her manners kick in and she places her hand softly on his and lets him lead her into the dining room.

Little is said throughout the course of dinner. They exchange pleasantries over the quality of food, but mostly, they sit in a silence that stifles both of them.

At the end of the meal, Jemma pats her lips with her napkin and stands, about to excuse herself to her room where she could recover from the uncomfortable dinner.

But Grant stops her. “If you don’t mind,” he says awkwardly, as if he had to pry the words from his mouth, “I’d like to dine with you tomorrow as well.”

The refusal is on the tip of her tongue. But she surprises herself.

Her face warms into a soft smile. “Sounds wonderful.”

vii.

It takes weeks, but eventually Fitz catches her alone.

He quietly requests her presence alone, and when she agrees, he all but drags her to a small dressing room, about the size of her closet.

It’s a tight fit for the both of them, and Jemma’s about to suggest that he call upon her at home instead, because she can’t breathe properly with him standing so close to her that he’s nearly on top of her. But Fitz seems to vibrate with intensity, and the fire in his eyes silences her almost instantly.

“Run away with me.” He says finally, the words falling from his lips with haste, she can’t quite be sure she heard him correctly.

She can’t help the laughter that bursts from her lips. When they were children, they had often joked about running away from home. It was unspoken that if one chose to run away for any number of the reasons they had come up with, the other would follow. But they were children, and it was easy to run away from problems when you were a child.

The laughter dies when the intensity in Fitz’s eyes only grows.

“You cannot be serious,” she gasps in surprise.

“I know you don’t love your husband, I know you’re suffering with him.” Fitz says earnestly. “But we can leave that all behind. I’ve got a bit of money saved up, and I know that I can’t give you the luxuries that he gives you. But Jemma,” he reaches out and grabs her hand tightly, “I can give you a lot more than he ever could.”

She freezes at his touch. “Fitz,” she says numbly. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

“Jemma,” he says softly. “I know this is sudden, but—.” He trails off.

“No, no,” she shakes her head furiously, wrenching her hand out his, backing into the wall. The four walls of the tiny room begin close in on her and her breathing increases as she struggles to send oxygen to her brain. She can’t think. “You’re messing with me.”

“Jemma,” Fitz’s tone becomes sterner, trying to snap her back into reality. “I’m being serious.” He pauses for a moment. “Level with me, do you love Mr. Ward?”

“No,” she admits quickly. Then she pauses for a moment. “But he’s still my husband, and I made an vow to him Fitz. Marrying him saved my family, and I cannot break that vow, no matter how much I would want to.”

Fitz’s eyes light up. “Then I have only one more question for you, Jemma. Do you love me?”

The breath leaves her chest and she’s backing to the wall. “Fitz, I—.”

“I know I never said it when we were younger, but you mean something to me Jemma. And I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to realize what it was.” He pauses and inhales deeply. “I love you.”

“Fitz,” she manages, but her throat is dry and it physically hurts to speak. “Stop.”

“Why Jemma,” he leans towards her, “Don’t you,” then he pauses, the light from his eyes fading, “feel the same way?”

“Fitz,” she swallows thickly, taking his hands in her own. “I care for you deeply, you’re my best friend. But I don’t—.”

“You don’t love me,” Fitz finishes.

She wants to say something more, but that’s the truth, even though it stings the both of them.

“You don’t love me,” he scoffs again. “I can’t believe I was so stupid.” He backs away from her.

“No, Fitz,” she reaches towards him.

“You love him,” he spits at her.

She’s honestly confused. “Who?” She asks.

“Him,” he sneers at her, “Your husband.”

“I told you didn’t.” She says patiently.

“And a moment ago I would have believed you, but you don’t love me, so—.”

“Just because I don’t love him, doesn’t mean I automatically mean I love you Leopold Fitz. And quite frankly in this moment, I don’t care for either of you.” She bristles.

“But that’s the thing, you care for him.” He doesn’t pause to let her interrupt. “This whole time I thought you were suffering with him, but I was wrong. You care for him. Maybe not love, but it will be soon enough. And that’s why you won’t leave with me, not because of your ‘promise’ to him, but because you actually care for him. Tell me I’m wrong.”

She wants to find the words to disagree with him. She doesn’t know what she feels for Grant. But she can’t deny that she feels something for him. She struggles for a moment too long, and that’s answer enough for him.

“I knew it,” he murmurs, and he turns towards the door.

She’s desperate in that moment to stop him. “Fitz,” she grabs his arm. “Please. You know I care for you.”

“I know,” he admits. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I care for you too much. And you don’t care for me enough.”

“Don’t say that,” she murmurs, as he pulls out of her grasp and slams the door behind him, leaving her alone in the closet.

viii.

“You were quiet tonight.”

His words startle her. She looks up from the book resting in her lap. He’s leaning on the doorframe of her bedroom door. He’s still wearing the suit from dinner, but the coat is off now, and he’s loosened the tie, and she’s sure that this is the most disheveled he’s ever looked in front of her.

She jumps off the bed and pulls her dressing gown on. “You startled me.”

“I apologize,” he says, stepping into the room to stand a few paces across from her. “I just wanted to check on you.”

“Because I was quiet at dinner,” she verifies. When he nods, she continues, “But I’m always quiet at dinner. So are you.”

He laughs quietly, and she takes a moment reveling in the sound. She’s sure that she’s never heard him laugh before. It definitely was a pleasant sound. “That is true,” he admits. “But it looked like something was bothering you.”

Something was bothering her. Fitz’s words still weigh on her heavily, but it wasn’t his proposal or declaration of love that bothered her, though she didn’t like the thought that he might be hurting. No, it was his insinuation of her feelings for her husband. But she couldn’t share any of that with Grant. It didn’t matter how little he cared for her, he wouldn’t take too kindly to one of his men trying to put the moves on her. Nor would he be impressed with the talk of feelings.

“It’s nothing,” she brushes off, searching for an excuse. “Just a silly fight with my sister.”

His brows furrow in concern. “What was the fight about?”

“Does it matter?” She raises an eyebrow at him.

“If it upset you,” he says slowly, his cheeks reddening a bit, “then it matters to me.”

This surprises her. She knew that things were improving between them, to the point where she hoped that one day Grant could be a friend, despite the circumstances that brought them together. But she had never expected for him to take an interest in her problems. But she supposes that is what a friend does.

“Mary and Lola want me to visit,” she says slowly, telling him about the conversation she had with her family earlier. “They didn’t understand why I couldn’t.”

“Oh,” Grant says softly, his eyes cast downwards.

“It’s no matter,” she explains to him. “I explained the situation to them and they understand now.”

He doesn’t look completely satisfied with that. He lingers in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot. She's about to ask if he wants to know anything else when he starts to speak again. “Perhaps,” he says slowly, weighing his words carefully. “You could go and visit them.”

She had waited for those words for ages now, but they didn’t bring her the satisfaction she thought they would have. Instead of thanking him and packing her bags to catch the next train out of the city, she finds herself asking, “Have I done something wrong?”

“What?” He looks taken aback. “No, why would you ask.”

“It’s just that you’re asking me to go home, and I thought that maybe you wanted me to leave.” She feels strangely embarrassed as she confesses to him.

His expression softens. “Jemma,” her name rolls off his tongue so easily, like it’s second nature to him. “I suggested you go visit your family because I thought it might make you happy. If you’d rather not visit them, that’s your choice. But you don’t have to stay here because you think I want you to stay here.”

She knows she should leave the matter at that, but she can’t help asking. “Do you want me to? Stay here, I mean.”

His eyes widen, and she wonders if she’s asked too much of him. “I,” he starts suddenly and then stops. He inhales deeply and takes a step towards her. “I know that I haven’t done much to make you welcome here. But I’ve quite enjoyed spending time with you in the past few weeks. I’ve grown accustomed to your presences,” he says carefully.

He’s already backing away from her a sheepish expression on his face, and she knows that is all she’ll get out of him. He’s near the door when she thinks to respond.

“I enjoy spending time with you too, Grant.”

It’s the first time she’s said his name out loud to him.

ix.

That night when she has trouble falling asleep.

Grant’s face plagues her. But it’s not the image that was seared into her memory on their first night. That angry rage filled man she thought he was.

No this time it was his smile, his laugh, the way his face softened when he admitted that he cared for her.

When she finally falls asleep, she wraps her arms around her waist and imagines what it would feel like to be wrapped up his arms.

x.

She avoids the Red Door for as long as she can.

Bobbi and Skye have to drag her out of the house, and even then she only leaves because Grant mentions at breakfast that he hopes to see her before dinner, even he had noticed her absence from the speakeasy, probably more than the others.

(The thought makes her blush rosy red.)

She knows that she must speak with Fitz, make him understand that her situation isn’t dire and even if they can’t be together like he desires, they can still be friends. The speech is still half formed in her mind, and her stomach is turning, but she is determined so she pulls herself together and marches off in search of him.

She doesn’t bother knocking on the door to his changing room, she worries she’ll lose resolve in the few seconds it takes him to come to the door, so she pushes it open.

Melinda May is sitting on his dressing table singing scales. She’s wearing a silver dress with a slit that goes up to her knee. She looks at Jemma with irritation. Fitz is sitting next to her, and he straightens when Jemma walks in.

Jemma doesn’t know much about Melinda May, only the bits that Bobbi and Skye gossip about. There’s a thing between Melinda May and Garrett that Jemma can’t quite explain. But the whispered words between Bobbi and Skye fill in the blanks. The woman makes Jemma nervous. She’s constantly frowning, speaks on the bare minimum and her eyes seem to pierce through Jemma’s soul.

“I’m sorry,” Jemma murmurs softly, “Could I please have a moment alone with Fitz?

May glances at Fitz and then hops off the table. “I’ll be back in a few,” she says over her shoulder as she strides out of the room.

Once May is out of the room, Fitz stands up. “Look, Jemma before you start, I just wanted to apologize for what I said earlier. It was completely out of turn and I shouldn’t have asked that of you.”

“Well I appreciate the apology,” she says quietly, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh,” Fitz says quietly, sitting back down. “Proceed.”

“I came here to tell you that you’re right.” Jemma says, “Not that it’s any of your business to know.”

“Okay,” Fitz says slowly, a bemused expression on his face. “About what though?”

“About Grant and myself,” she braces herself for the anger he’s sure to display. “I feel something for him, and I’m not sure what is, but that was part of the reason I wouldn’t leave him.

Fitz sighs and stands up. He strides over to her and places two hands on her shoulders. There’s a bitter smile on his face. “I know,” he says softly, “It’s okay.”

Jemma pulls out of his embrace. “I know it’s okay, he’s my husband,” she says defensively.

Fitz laughs shortly. “God, Jemma. Of course it’s okay to me. I meant that it’s okay for him too.”

Jemma turns towards Fitz, face drawn in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Fitz exhales loudly. “What you said yesterday was correct. You don’t have to love me, not if you don’t already feel that way. And I know you care for me a lot. And no matter what, we’ll always be friends. And that’s why you came to me.”

“I came to you to—.”

He cuts her off, “You came to me because you’re starting to feel something for your husband, and you’re worried that he’s going to push you away as soon as he figures out. But the thing is Jemma, I think he already knows.”

Her face draws in horror and she opens her mouth to protest.

“I mean subconsciously,” he cuts her off. “Both of you are spending more time together, and of course you’re going to look at him more kindly once he starts treating you better. So I’m sure he knows on some level that you care for him. You were always an affectionate one, Jemma.”

She can’t find the words to respond.

He places a hand on her cheek and smiles. “It’s okay, Jemmie,” he says using the nickname from when they were children. “I’m sure, no I know that he cares for you too.”

A feeling of warmth floods her chest and she can’t help but lean into Fitz’s touch. “You really think so,” a note of vulnerability fills her voice.

“I know so,” Fitz says, retracting his hand. “Even a flat tire like Ward wouldn’t be able to resist your warmth.”

“Thanks Fitz,” she says quietly.

“Anytime, Jemma,” he says sincerely. “And I mean it, don’t be a stranger.”

She smiles brightly and makes her way to the door. “Fitz,” she stops and turns towards him. “I do love you.”

His smile is bitter sweet, but it doesn’t send pangs through her stomach. “Love you too, Jemma.”

xi.

She’s nearly at Grant’s office, quietly building up the resolve to talk to him about them, when Trip stops her with an uncomfortable look on her face.

She wants to sidestep around him and continue on to Grant's office, but really that would be rude, and Trip's been so awfully nice to her, so she smiles up at him instead. “How are you doing, Mr. Trip?”

The strange looks fades quickly and he’s smiling back. “How many times do I have to ask you to call me Trip, Mrs. Ward?”

“As long as you keep calling me Mrs. Ward,” she tosses back at him.

His smile grows rueful. “Fair enough,” he says. Then he pauses, as if he is remembering himself, the smile fading from his face. “Unfortunately I’m here to deliver a message to you.”

“A message?” She asks curiously. “From Grant?”

His face contorts. “Not exactly,” he draws out. “Garrett wants to see you.”

Her stomach twists instantly. “Mr. Garrett wants to see me?” She repeats a bit incredulously, because surely Trip was mistaken. What would Garrett want with her?

“I’m sorry, Jemma,” Trip says, looking truly repent. “But he wants to see you right now, and I have to escort you to him.”

“Should I tell Grant?” She asks looking past him at her husband’s office a bit worriedly.

“It won’t make a difference,” he says lowly. “Garrett will still want to see you. Grant will just be furious with him. And Garrett won’t like that. You know how that will end.”

Coming from anyone else, Jemma might have insisted on seeing Grant before they went, but Jemma trusts Trip and so she nods and follows him as he leads her down the darkened hallways. It occurs to her quickly that he’s leading her away from the main floor so she asks, “Where are we going?”

“Garrett’s waiting out back,” Trip says, something undetectable in his voice, and it makes Jemma feel uneasy.

He comes to a short stop in front of a steel door and looks back at her. He barely meets her eyes as he tells her. “I can’t come with you, but Garrett’s out there.” He gestures at the door.

She nods slowly, moving past him. He claps her shoulder just as she’s about to pass him. “It’s going to be fine, Jemma. Okay? Remember that.”

She wants to question his words, to ask him what exactly is going to happen when she exits that door. But she knows that she can’t, Trip won’t tell her, he can’t. So she nods shortly and pushes open the door.

It leads out into an alleyway, and at first she can’t see anything. Despite being broad daylight, the alleyway is shaded and dark. Her spirits lift as she assumes that Garrett got tired of waiting for her, and she turns around to tell Trip that he isn’t there. But then she notices him. He’s standing a few feet away from her, grinning at her broadly. In front of him is a huddled shaking mass that Jemma can’t quite identify. There are two men standing off to the side looking quite bored with the proceedings.

She takes a moment to pull herself together and steps out of the doorway. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Garrett,” she says walking towards him.

“Yes, dear,” he says with a bright smile, a smile that sends shivers down her back. “Come here, I want to show you something.”

She walks towards him and stands beside him facing the huddled mass in front of him, which she recognizes as a person, a woman, when she gets closer. She’s dressed in rags, probably what was once a gorgeous dress, now torn to shreds and muddied. She’s shivering and Jemma desperately wants to wrap her coat around the girl’s shoulders

“Do you recognize this girl?” Garrett asks her conversationally, as if they were speaking about a girl walking down the street, not huddled in front of them.

The girl looks up at her through stringy brown hair with a blank expression on her face. Though her whole body trembles, she doesn’t seem to share the same fear that seizes Jemma.

“No,” Jemma shakes her head.

“Of course you don’t,” Garrett says with a patient smile. “Until yesterday, this girl was sleeping with one of my men. She had him wrapped around her finger. Caught him with this whole spiel about wanting to movie to Hollywood to become one of them film stars. He was goofy over her.” He spits at the last bit at the girl who shivers violently in response.

Jemma tries to focus on something else, to look at something else so her stomach stops turning, but her eyes are drawn back to the girl like a rubber band snapping back into place.

“Now you can imagine that this made my man a little stupid. He started telling the girl some things, harmless things, he thought, just some stories to impress her. It worked, she fell for his stories, wanted to hear more about what he did.” Garrett scoffs. “Since he was a sap so he thought the only way to keep her around was to tell her more about him and me and, more importantly, Hydra.”

Jemma casts a worried look at the girl, hoping, praying that she was wrong. That this girl didn’t do anything with the information other than file it away in her head.

“Of course this girl wasn’t interested in him at all.” Garrett continues as if telling a story. “She was interested in me, in my operations, in destroying Hydra. She worked for the police and had been secretly gathering intel on me and Hydra for months.”

She can’t help the gasp that flees her mouth.

Garrett’s eyes light up, “Exactly, my dear. We have a traitor in our midst.”

The girl whips her head up to look at Garrett, her shaking ceases. “I’m no traitor,” she spits at him.

Garrett whips his pistol and aims it at the girl’s forehead. “Shut up,” he roars at her, and the girl falls silent instantly.

Jemma takes a step back, her eyes fixed on the gun in Garrett’s hand. Her head is shaking violently, “Mr. Garrett, what are you doing?”

Garrett glances at her, as if suddenly remembering she was still there. His grip on the gun relaxes a bit and the smile returns to her face. “Now you must be wondering why I’ve called you here.”

Jemma forces herself to relax, and she nods.

“I know that you don’t quite approve of my business, and it pains you that Grant is involved, doesn’t it?”

“Mr. Garrett,” she begins to protest, “I—.”

He lifts the gun to his lips and makes a shushing movement. “Wasn’t what I said true, Mrs. Ward?”

She just nods dumbly.

His smile grows wider. “I’ve held back for awhile, hoping that you would come to your senses on your own. I know that the business can be difficult for some people, women especially. However you have proven to be quite set in your ways Mrs. Ward. And you can understand why I can’t have that. Stubbornness leads problems for me. Unwillingness to accept our ways leads to problems like her,” he glances at the girl.

“Mr. Garrett,” Jemma interrupts him, her voice shaking. “Please, I understand what you’re saying. Just please, don’t hurt her.”

He continues to smile at her patronizingly. “You understand my conundrum, don’t you dear? If I let her do, I will be perceived as weak, and even worse she will continue to leak my secrets to those who seek to destroy me.”

“But you can’t kill her,” Jemma begs him.

“Can’t I?” Garrett raises an eyebrow. In the blink of an eye, so quick that Jemma almost misses it, Garrett levels the gun and fires a single shot into the girl’s forehead. The girl remains standing for a horrible moment before she crumbles to the ground without a sound.

A horrible scream pierces the silence that falls over the alleyway and it takes Jemma a moment to realize the scream comes from her. It dies in her throat at the look on Garrett’s face. He looks satisfied, almost as if he enjoyed the kill. It terrifies her.

He turns towards her and inhales deeply. “You understand what I’m trying to illustrate to you, don’t you Mrs. Ward?”

Her mind is racing and she can’t seem to control her breathing. The ground shakes under her feet and she just wants to get away from him. She wants to call him a monster, to scream at him, to claw at her face. The anger bubbles up in her until it is all she can feel. But she can’t let it consume her, it would get her killed. She pushes it down and tries not to think of the woman bleeding at their feet.

Get used to Hydra and stay quiet, or she would be killed. Garrett had made that much clear.

She nods shortly, swallowing the bile that rises in her throat. “Can I leave Mr. Garrett? My husband is expecting me.”    

His face brightens into a smile, and nods. He gestures to his men to move the body as she turns away from him. She walk to the door, coaching herself through the steps. Just ten more paces until she was at the door. Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

“Oh, Mrs. Ward?” Garrett calls out for her, stopping her in her tracks.

She whirls towards him, expecting him to have the gun raised and pointed at her chest.

“The Missus and I would love to have you and Grant over for dinner.” He smiles at her, that sinister sickening smile he had on his face when he killed the girl, and it twists her stomach until her vision is nearly black.

“Anytime,” she forces a smile on her face in response.

She manages to wait until she’s inside before she heaves the contents of stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact #1: Mario Gotti was a made up name. But Gotti is the name of one of the families that ran the Gambino Crime family. 
> 
> Again, I've done my best to stay to the 1920s time frame as much as I can, but I know that I make mistakes often. So if you want to call me out of them, please do, I welcome it. But I'll probably just shrug and admit it was my bad. 
> 
> The entire theme of this chapter was to push Grant and Jemma close together because they're going to start to go through hell from the next chapter onwards. I hope I was somewhat successful on that front. 
> 
> Also in the final scene, I imagined that girl to be Agent 33. Or at least a girl with her face (not the Melinda May copy, but her original face). She'll probably be brought up again. 
> 
> Finally a note on the next few chapters, things are about to get a bit darker and more difficult as things continue. I tried to set up that tone with the last scene. I just want to remind you of the archival warnings because that's going to come into play real soon. So fair warning.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this next chapter. Please comment and kudos if you enjoyed, and subscribe if you want to see more, because there's definitely more to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning is a good place to start usually, but some of us don't have that luxury. 
> 
> Sometimes the story begins in the middle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently it's been like two months since I updated this, to which I'm sorry. Thanks for all the support and the kind words. I've been going through a bit of a writer's block, but I pushed through yesterday night to finish this chapter right before my spring break and getting my wisdom teeth pulled out. 
> 
> Just a quick note, you know that major character death warning up in the tags? Yeah that comes into play in this chapter. 
> 
> Enough of my chatter, on to the chapter.

i.

When she gets home, she nearly bowls over Mrs. Tucker, only pausing in the doorway to look back at the older woman, and say, “Please inform my husband that I will be unable to dine with him this evening.”

She catches a glimpse of the disapproving frown on Mrs. Tucker’s face before she slams the door in the older woman’s face.

She leans against the door and breaks down. Tears stream down her face in rivers and the sobs are being ripped from her chest, like they’re being torn out of her. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to muffle the noise, knowing fully well that Mrs. Tucker is noisy enough to come and knock on the door to see what is wrong.

She tears at her dress because she can’t breathe. Torn rags in her clenched hands as she collapses to the grounds, her chest heaving in effort from her sobbing.

It’s easy to sit on the ground. She can feel the warm ground under her legs, and she cries until there’s no more tears left to fall down her face. Eventually she pushes herself off the ground and towards the bed. She tumbles into bed and buries herself under the sheets.

She lies in bed reciting lines from books she’s read, because if she doesn’t focus on something, the woman’s face swims into her vision, the sound of gunfire fills her ears followed by sharp cruel laughter.

Sleep doesn’t come easily; she lies awake waiting for someone to burst through the door. She waits for Grant mainly. She doesn’t expect him to let her lie there with no excuse for her absence. But he never shows. And as the room gets darker and her fear grows, she expects it to be Garrett.

(He could have killed her in the alleyway. He could have killed her.

And he could kill her now.)

The fear tugs at her chest, and she shuts her eyes. Her body gives way to exhaustion and the images in her head grow more vivid. She’s back in the alleyway, but this time she’s kneeling in front of Garrett. He’s got a gun to her forehead and she can feel the cool metal pressing into her skin.

She’s begging, pleading for her life. But he’s laughing, shaking his head at her, that cruel excited look in his eyes.

The metal relaxes suddenly and he takes a step back. For a moment, she wonders if he’s going to let her run away. But then Grant steps in front of her. He’s got an unreadable expression on his face, but the sight of him is a relief, she nearly jumps to her feet.

Something keeps her rooted to the floor.

“You want the honors?” Garrett asks crassly, holding the gun towards him loosely.

For a beat, they all stare at the gun, no one daring to breath.

She calls out to him, “Grant, please don’t.”

He doesn’t even glance at her as he reaches for the gun. Her voice catches in her throat and the words die on the tip of her tongue. Her husband is going to kill her.

Her scream breaks through the dream and she shoots up right in bed. The door slams open and Grant is standing in the doorway, barely lit up by a light down the hallway. He’s glancing around the room, expecting some sort of danger.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps out, sobs rack through her, residual fear at the sight of him coursing through her. “It was just a nightmare. A silly nightmare.”

He strides into the room and wraps her up in his arms. She stiffens at the contact. She can’t erase the image of him holding a gun to her forehead.

_It was a dream_ , she reassures herself. Grant wouldn’t kill her. He wouldn’t.

Slowly she sags against him as his hands rub up and down her back, soothing her.

He pulls away from her, glancing behind him at Mrs. Tucker who is standing in the door in a nightcap looking at the pair nervously. “Could you please bring up a tea tray for Jemma?”

Mrs. Tucker nods quickly, and scurries out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

“I’m sorry,” Jemma mumbles into Grant’s chest. She knows that she should pull away from him and wipe the tears from her face and compose herself. But she can’t bring herself to pull away. In his arms, she feels safe for the first time since the Alley.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, his chest rumbling underneath her. “I understand nightmares, believe me. What was the dream about?”

She hesitates.

“It might help to speak about it,” he prods gently.

She can’t tell him. “I don’t quite remember,” she says softly, trying to keep her voice level. She knows she’s a horrible liar. “It was frightening, but I can’t remember.”

Mrs. Tucker bustles in at that moment, and she has an excuse to look away from his piercing eyes. She’s carrying a tray of steaming tea and she places it softly beside them. She ducks her head and darts out of the room.

Grant lets go of her and reaches for the tray. He grabs a steaming cup off the tray and hands it towards her. “Drink,” he urges her, reaching for the tray to grab his own.

They drink in silence, and though she enjoys the tea, she misses the warmth of his arms. She’s itching to reach other and grab his hand in her own, but she keeps her hands tightly fisted in her lap.

She assumes that he must feel the same longing, because after they finish the tea, he lingers in her room, finding something to fix or straighten. It’s endearing, really.

He stands in the doorway, a frown on his face. “You should go back to sleep. We still have a few more hours till dawn.”

She shivers at the thought of trying to fall asleep again. “I’m not sure I will be able to get back to sleep,” she says carefully, imagining the feel of the gun against her skin.

“You should try to get some rest,” he says softly, his eyes falling to the floor. “You’ll be tired otherwise.”

The concern in his voice touches her, and instantly the words are flying out of her mouth. “Will you stay with me?” She blurts out, her cheeks flushing red. “I’d sleep better with you here.”

It’s not entirely improper, he’s her husband, after all. But the air in the room thickens, and Jemma glances down at the duvet, as Grant’s eyes shoot up to her. She can feel her husband’s stare piercing through her. She expects him to say no, he must be thinking of the words to let her down easily. She gathers herself together and looks up at him.

He’s striding towards the bed, and the motion startles her. She sits up a little straighter and her eyes widen. He stops right in front of her and hesitates. “Are you sure?”

She can’t bring herself to speak, the lump in her throat is so large she fears she’ll never find a way around it. She nods furiously, patting the bed side her.

He slides into bed beside her, lying stiff as a board. She can feel the warmth resonating from him, so close she can touch it if she slides her hand over.

She wants him to wrap her up in his arms again. To feel that warmth enclosing her like a blanket wrapped around her. She reaches towards him slowly, hesitantly. Her hands comes in contact with his and she wraps her hand around his before she can regret the motion.

That’s the trick. In a flash, he’s tugging her towards him, wrapping his arms around her. She shifts her head off the pillow and onto his chest. It’s a strange change. His chest is hard and more muscular than her pillow, but under the cushion of her hair, she can feel the rhythmic thump of his heart, lulling her to sleep.

Just when she’s on the edge, her eyes fluttering shut, she can hear his voice from far away. It’s so quiet, she’s sure she imagines it on the edge of sleep.

“Goodnight, darling.”

ii.

Her limbs are stiff, like she's slept for hours, when she wakes.

She’s stretched across the bed, taking up nearly every inch of it. She lifts her head off the artfully placed pillow and glances around the room, hoping for a second that Grant was still lingering in her room somewhere.

The sun was shining through the window and she knows instantly that she’d slept in.

She slips out of the bed, wrapping her dressing gown around herself. There’s a note on her dresser, and she can’t help the smile that slides onto her face at the sight of his handwriting.

He had left a note.

_Jemma,_

_I wanted to wait until you woke up, but Trip called for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can._

_I enjoyed last night._

_Yours,_

_Grant_

The card held so little, but so much at the same time. It was strange how her husband could say so much with so few words. She clutches the card to her chest and attempts to suppress the glee that fills her up. It’s only been minute since she woke up and she already misses him.

She hurries out of the room and rushes towards the kitchen. Mrs. Tucker is already bustling around the room, filling up a tray with pastries and fruit. She looks up when Jemma enters.

“Oh, Miss,” she says in surprise. “I was just about to bring you up a tray. Mr. Ward’s request,” she finishes with a wink.

“No need,” Jemma brushes off, grabbing one of the pastries off the tray. “I was actually hoping you could help me with something.”

“Anything?” Mrs. Tucker looks up eagerly, her eyes wide with happiness.

“I’d like you to help me make Grant dinner.”

iii.

Dinner is a two fold plan.

There’s the actual dinner preparation, where Jemma desperately needs Mrs. Tucker’s help. There was only one skill that Jemma couldn’t manage to pick up from her mother, and that was cooking. She’s not horrible at it, she’s never actually burnt anything. But that natural skill that her mother seemed to possess, is lacking in Jemma. Luckily Mrs. Tucker's cooking is marvelous and a much better teacher than her mother.

Mrs. Tucker walks her through some of Grant’s favorite dishes, and at the end Jemma throws together a fruit cocktail for dessert, her specialty.

The second part is actually getting ready for dinner. She tugs Mrs. Tucker upstairs and makes the poor woman wait while she bathes using the scented oils that the woman had given her during her first week. She exits the bathroom wrapped up in a towel and tugs dress after dress out of her closet, holding it up for the woman’s approval.

“How about this one?” Mrs. Tucker pushes past her to pull out a rose colored dress.

She gently took the silky material out of Mrs. Tucker’s hands and fingered the ruffles at the end of the dress. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

Mrs. Tucker smiles at her fondly. “Who do you think picked it out, dear?”

iv.

She sends Mrs. Tucker to bed early and sits up in the dining room waiting from him. The room is filled with lit candles, odd shadows cover the walls. She nervously pats down her dress, hoping that he’ll approve.

Her heart jumps a beat when the front door shuts with a slam, and footsteps patter towards the dining room. “Jemma,” he calls out, and her heart nearly stops at the noise.

He steps through the door, the candlelight reflects oddly against the shadows of his face, making him seem more imposing. His eyes widen and he takes a step forward. The light shifts and he smiles, his entire face brightens. “What’s this?”

“I wanted to thank you for yesterday night.” She says nervously, standing up. She takes a step towards him. “I appreciate you comforting me.” She hesitates, “Is it too much?”

He crosses the room, standing right in front of her. He towers over her, the candlelight casts shadows on his jaw and she can’t quite see the emotion in his eyes, but his mouth is quirked up in a smile and she nearly sags against him in relief. “It’s wonderful.”

“I made dinner,” she admits, taking his hand in her own and leading him towards the dinner.

“Really?” He looks at her, impressed.

“Mrs. Tucker helped,” she admits and his smile brightens.

He glances at all the dishes. “My favorites,” he says with a hint of surprise.

“I wanted to make sure you would like it.”

“I would have liked anything you made,” he admits sheepishly, glancing down at his plate, and she swears his checks tinge red.

“I,” she stutters. “Don't say that before you actually eat,” she says softly. She pushes one of the dishes towards him. “Try it,” she urges him.

He fills his plate to the brim with everything. She follows in suite, but waits until he takes the first bite, watching him nervously.

“Do you like it?” She asks as he chews thoughtfully.

He glances at her. “It’s fantastic.” He admits. “I love it.” Then he glances down at his plate, a strange expression on his face. It clears quickly, and he stares at the table thoughtfully. “My mother never cooked for us, so it’s a bit strange for me to have…” He doesn’t complete the thought.

She considers her words carefully; it’s more than he’s ever admitted to her. “I’m glad I could do this for you,” she says slowly. “I hope to learn more and continue to impress you.”

“You do that already.” He says looking at her seriously.

She flushes. “How was work?” She clears her throat, attempting to change the subject.

He blanches, fork hovering near his mouth. “Is that what we’re calling it?” He raises an eyebrow at her.

She’s flustered for a moment. “I just thought,” she stutters, trying to come up with an explanation for her words. “But it is—.”

“I’m just messing with you,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up, a humorous spark in his eyes. “Now you can tell Bobbi and Skye that I actually have a sense of humor.”

“That was mean spirited,” she complains, a pout on her lips. “And I believe that they would agree with me.”

He scoffs. “Says you.”

She pauses for a moment, reveling the in the fact that they’re having an pleasant conversation. “How was your day?” She tries again.

“Fine,” he shrugs. “I had to deal with some shipment issues, that’s why Trip called me in. I wouldn’t have,” he flushes, but she can’t be sure if it’s not a trick of the light, “left you unless it was important.”

“That’s okay,” she waves off. “Continue.”

Grant shrugs. “I made sure that everything was set for tonight and I came home, leaving Trip in charge.”

“I wondered why you weren’t later. I didn’t expect you until after the club closed,” she admits, raising her water glass to her mouth.

He’s quiet for a long moment. “I wanted to see you,” he admits.

She doesn’t know how to respond, but she can’t let the comment go. She reaches across the table towards him, and briefly touches his free hand. Warmth shoots up her arm at the touch and she grazes his hand before she retracts her hand with a shy smile.

He’s silent for a moment longer before he clears his throat, a change in subject. “I saw Garrett on the way out.”

She’s paralyzed at the mention of him. She had nearly forgotten Garrett in the haze of Grant. The mere mention of his name drags up the horrid memory of the woman in the alley. Her stomach churns and she drops her fork with a clang. Grant stares at her curiously, but she shakes her head quickly, assuring him and ridding herself of the image.

“What did he say?” She forces out with a hint of curiosity.

“He wanted to invite us over for dinner,” Grant says bemusedly.

She’s glad his confused, it meant that Garrett mentioned nothing of their previous meeting. It also meant that Grant was surprised by Garrett’s interest in them.

“When?” Her voice squeaks a bit, and Grant’s eyes narrow.

“Tomorrow,” he says slowly. “Jemma, are you alright?”

She gulps down another sip of water. “I’m fine,” she says thickly. “Just surprised.”

Grant’s face relaxes a bit. “I was surprised as well, but Garrett is just looking to offer his congratulations, I suppose.”

“Congratulations,” she says softly, musing on the word. “I’m sure.”

They’re silent for the rest of dinner.

v.

At night, Grant turns to head for his room.

Dinner is awkward after he mentions Garrett. He attempts conversation, but she’s nonresponsive. He gets tired of it quickly, and she can’t blame him.

She catches his hand, feeling that same warmth and spark that seems to emanate from him. It’s less of a surprise this time, but the moment that his skin touches her, she relaxes instantly. It’s as if she was in pain before and his touch sent the pain away, it’s a relief. She craves his touch, and now that she’s holding him again, she doesn’t want to let go.

He glances down at their joined hands curiously, and then back at her.

She tugs on his hand lightly, leading him towards her room. At the doorway of her room, she glances back at him. “Stay, please, again.”

He nods just as she pulls him into the room.

vi.

This time he’s there in the morning.

She wakes before him and spends the few moments before he’s awake tracing the features of his face with her eyes. He looks younger when he’s sleeping, nearly everyone does. But there’s something different about seeing him sleeping. It’s as if all the lines she hadn’t realized existed were erased. It was a glimpse into the boy he used to be. The boy before Garrett. She’s entranced.

She’s about to lean over and trace his features with her fingers when his eyes flutter open and lock on with hers.

For a beat, they stare at each other, completely entranced with the other. She’s staring into molten pools of dark brown and they’re pulling her further and further down.

“Good morning,” he says throatily, and his hands tighten on her hips, sending waves of fire shooting through her body. She shivers with pleasure.

Good morning indeed.

vii.

They spend the day doing everything and nothing at the same time.

She’s desperate to distract herself from the knowledge that soon she’ll be fact to face with Garrett again, and Grant’s such a willing distraction. He bounds from room to room like a child, eager to point out new things to her. The shelves in his study had been custom implants, the marble in the bathrooms had been imported, the sheets have a thread count that make them feel like clouds.

They end up in his study. He lounges in his chair, his eyes trailing her as she wanders around the room, perusing every book she can get her hands on.

“You like to read?” He asks lazily.

“Love to read,” she corrects, glancing back at him with a large smile. “It’s a habit that mother tried to wring out of me.”

“I’m glad she didn’t manage it.” He says standing up. He walks the length of the room, and stands right up behind her. Her breath catches in her throat as she feels the heat radiate from him. He’s so close that if she just back up a bit, she’d be pressed right up against him.

He pulls away; just she whirls around to face him. He’s holding a book in his hands, a smirk on his face as if he had an idea of the effect he had on her. “Here,” he holds it out to her.

Her face is flushed, and she glances at the book so she doesn’t have to meet his eyes. “Pride and Prejudice,” her face scrunches up at the title.

“You’ve read it?” There’s a touch of nervousness in Grant’s voice.

“Hasn’t everyone? It’s a bit cliché though, isn’t it? I’ve never quite enjoyed it.”

“Neither have I,” Grant admits, a secret smile on his face. “But lately, I felt a connection to the book. Something in it that I’ve never quite understood until now.” His eyes meet hers. He pushes the book towards her. “Perhaps you might feel the same way.”

It’s like she’s entranced. “Perhaps,” she says softly, taking the book into her hands.

“A woman and man fall in love despite their initial misunderstanding of one another,” he muses. “Quite the fairytale.”

“Something like that,” she agrees, taking a step away from him. “Although I would say, perhaps it mimics real life?”

His eyes darken and he takes a step towards her. The breath catches in her throat. And he’s about to do something, and she’s not quite sure what. But it sends shivers down her spine. “Jemma I—.”

There’s knock at the door, and he pulls away with an irritated look on his face. She’s strangely relieved and disappointed all at once. Mrs. Tucker pokes her head in the doorway. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, Mr. Ward. It’s just that the Missus asked me to come fetch her when it was time to get ready.”

Grant glances at the clock on the mantle and curses. “We need to leave soon,” he says pulling away from her.

She feels a slightly pang of disappointment. “I should go get ready,” she says slowly, backing towards the door, hoping that he’ll stop her, maybe even drag her into his arms.

But he doesn’t, he keeps his eyes focused solely on the floor and lets her walk right out the door.

viii.

She nervously pats down the cream lace dress as they exit the apartment together.

“You look fine,” Grant says gruffly, drawing her attention away from the invisible creases in her dress.

She glances up at him with large eyes, “Really?”

For a moment, he’s taken aback. He stares at her with a dumbfounded expression She’s about to open her mouth and ask him if he’s feeling alright, but his expression clears up and he looks down at her with soft eyes. “You look beautiful.”

Her face flushes at his words and she looks down the floor. “Thank you,” she says softly.

Slowly, he reaches out and tucks a strand of her hair that comes loose in her movements. His hand stills at her cheek for a moment longer, guiding her face up to meet his intense gaze, before he swiftly brings his hand back to his side.

His hand leaves behind a burning sensation in its wake. She thinks that it should be uncomfortable, but she finds herself craving it. She wants him to cup her cheek again and pull her close to him. She wants to take a step forward and let his hands trace over every inch of her. The thought has her face flushing even further.

“You alright?” He raises an eyebrow at her, his expression infuriating passive.

“Right as rain,” she says a little breathlessly. She regains her bearings quickly. “Shall we head off then?”

He offers her the crook of his arm and steers her out the door of their building.

She’s more successful this time at ignoring the way her palms burn as the touch his arm.

ix.

“You don’t have to speak much tonight.”

“Huh?” She glances away from the blurred lights passing by in the car window. She had successfully distracted herself for a few moments, focusing on the passing lights of the city, instead of their impending destination. Grant is staring her curiously, his expression almost sympathetic.

“You won’t have to speak tonight,” he repeats, “I’ll handle most of it.”

She wonders if she should find his words patronizing. But instead a tidal wave of relief washes over her at his words. Any excuse to remain quiet and meek in Garrett’s presence, is one that she would seize.

(It wouldn’t be easy, though. She had a sick pit in her stomach at the thought of Garrett, and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to meet his eyes without cringing and Grant would see right through that. And Garrett probably wouldn’t resist the urge to play with her discomfort.)

But for the moment, she clasps her hand in his and squeezes his hand lightly to thank him. He glances away from her, but for a moment, she swears his cheeks tinge red.

He clears his throat. “Garrett’s wife Victoria will be there,” he explains. Jemma nods, remembering the stern woman from their wedding. “She’s,” Grant begins slowly, “a naturally uptight woman.”

Jemma raises an eyebrow at him curiously.

“She’s not quite fond of me,” he explains with a rueful smile.

“Why?” Jemma asks curiously. Despite everything, she couldn’t imagine anyone not liking Grant. He was stubborn and complex, but he had been the one to comfort her and protect her after everything that happened.

Grant’s smile twists. “Victoria may be very aware of Garrett’s business, and she may profit from it, but that doesn’t mean she likes it.”

Jemma’s stomach twists. That is one thing she had in common with the woman. No wonder Victoria never visited the Red Door. She wonders what possessed Victoria to invite her and Grant over. Perhaps she saw something familiar in Jemma?

(Or perhaps it is solely Garrett’s ploy to make Jemma feel more uncomfortable and Victoria is just as much as a pawn as she is?)

“Could we perhaps leave early?” Jemma asks Grant nervously. Grant glances at her curiously, and she rushes on, “Perhaps we could excuse ourselves right after dinner, saying we have some business at home.”

“Are you sure you’re alright, Jemma?” Grant’s eyes narrow curiously.

She hesitates for a moment. “I’m fine,” she says brusquely, “He just gives me the heebie-jeebies. I can’t quite explain it.”

“He gives most people the heebie-jeebies,” Grant says wryly, but his face softens at the twist in Jemma’s mouth. “We’ll leave early,” he assures her, reaching out to pat her hand. “I’ll just claim that there is some work at the club.”

She twists her hand to entangle her fingers with Grants and squeezes his hand. “Thank you,” she says with a grateful smile.

Again Grant’s face flushes, but this time he doesn’t turn away from her.

x.

She can’t help but be in awe of Garrett’s mansion as they pull up to the place. It’s at the edge of the city, situated upon a large hill with a long drive up. It takes minutes before the place comes into view and Jemma can’t help but be floored.

(At least until she remembers where Garrett got the money to pay for the place.)

“It’s quite big,” she says quietly as they pull to a stop in front of the house.

Grant grunts in response and shoves the door of the car open. He slides out and gives her a hand to help her out. She lets him place his hand around her waist, guiding her towards the door, while the dread fills her stomach. _It’s going to be fine_ , she reminds herself once more. He knocks on the door three times before he steps back. For a wild moment, Jemma hopes no one answers and she can turn around and run home, dragging Grant along with her.

Grant’s hand drops from around her waist as the door swings open and a stern faced woman with long black hair stares at them for a long moment.

“Welcome,” she says finally, stepping to the side, letting them pass through the door. “Grant,” she acknowledges with a polite nod, before turning towards Jemma, her face softening into a large smile. “It’s lovely to meet you again, Jemma.”

Jemma stiffens. “It’s good to meet you again Mrs.—.”

“Oh don’t call me Missus,” Victoria waves off. “It makes me feel so old. Victoria will do just fine.”

“Victoria,” Jemma repeats, glancing at Grant a bit nervously who stares back at her dumbfoundedly.

Victoria reaches out and grasps Jemma’s hand, tugging her forward. Grant follows them both. “It’s wonderful that you were finally able to visit us. I’ve been badgering John for weeks now to invite you both for dinner. You’re newlyweds,” Victoria crows. “It’s only proper that we treat you both.”

“We appreciated the invitation,” Jemma assures her, glancing at Grant over her shoulder, hoping he’d be more help. “You have a beautiful house.”

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Victoria turns towards her with a large smile, as they enter the sitting room. “I decorated it myself. John wasn’t much help.”

“You didn’t want my help, darling,” a deeper voice drawls, sending shivers up Jemma’s spine. “You said I was just ruining everything.”

Victoria huffs and turns towards the figure in the doorway. “Well you were,” she says childishly. “You were more interested in the crystal scotch bottles, not the ivory curtains.”

Garrett steps into the light, and Jemma automatically takes a step back, bumping into Grant who slips a hand around her waist, holding her securely against him. “Well you can’t blame me, doll,” he says, knocking back a glass of brown liquid. “I don’t understand curtains the same way you do.”

“That is for certain,” Victoria says with a huff.

Garrett glances away from Victoria and his smile twists as he settles on Jemma’s figure. “Mrs. Ward,” he booms. “It’s good to see you again.”

Grant’s arm tightens around her and it prompts her into responding. “Mr. Garrett,” she says politely, ducking her gaze away from him. “Thank you for inviting us into your home.”

“Oh it’s a pleasure,” his smirk widens, before he turns towards Grant. “Grant, would you like a drink?”

Her husband clears his throat. “Not tonight, thank you.”

Garrett’s smirk falters. “Mrs. Grundy not letting you drink anymore?”

Jemma stiffens at the condescending tone, and she twists in Grant’s arms to look up at him. Grant’s frown deepens. “Jemma has nothing to do with it,” he says carefully. “I’d rather not drink tonight.”

Garrett’s eyes sparkle with anger, and he opens his mouth again, but Victoria cuts him off. “Enough, John,” she says sharply. “You should admire that the man is respecting the Prohibition, unlike you,” she surveys him with distaste. “Now,” she claps her hands together. “Shall we retire to the dining room to eat?”

Jemma and Grant stare at Garrett before the older man nods slowly and ambles out of the room.

“Ignore him,” Victoria says with a slight frown. “He’s just had a long day.”

Grant nods once, before steering Jemma towards the next room. “It’s going to be fine,” he reassures her under his breath. His hand tightens on her back as he steers her in the direction of the dining room. She tries to believe him. But she can’t fight the bubbling feeling of dread settling in her stomach.

“You can do this,” she reminds herself as they step through the door to the dining room and Garrett comes into a view, nursing another glass of scotch. “Just smile,” she thinks, plastering a bright, fake smile that she used to wear to her mother’s dinner parties.

Garrett’s smile curls at the sight of her, and her mind instantly flashes to the woman in the alley. Shivers shoot up her spine.

“Just smile,” she thinks, fists clenching at her sides. “And maybe, everything will be alright.”

xi.

Dinner is insufferable.

Courses are brought out in a line of synchronized servers, Jemma wonders repeatedly if Victoria actually practices with them the order in which the dishes must be brought out, because around the third round, she’s already forgotten what they started off with.

Everything tastes fantastic, but every time Garrett glances at her, the food turns to ash in her mouth. She spends more time moving food around her plate, waiting for the next course, than actually eating.

Grant glances at her repeatedly, occasionally nudging into a few bites.

The silence is unbearable. Garrett uses it to look at Jemma knowingly. Grant glances at her, not much of a conversationalist himself, while Victoria keeps her eyes solely focused on her plate, the bubbly housekeeper from the living room vanished into someone else entirely.

Steeling herself, Jemma meets Garrett’s gaze with a bright unnatural smile. “So tell me, Mr. Garrett, how did you meet your lovely wife?”

Victoria’s gaze snaps up to meet her, her face troubled. “It’s actually a funny story,” she says in an unnaturally high voice. “I met John at a—.”

“Quite the tale,” Garrett cuts into, shooting Victoria a gaze. “I met this lovely lady at Grant’s place, you might say Grant is the reason we’re together, eh Buddy?” He says leaning across the table to nudge a clearly uncomfortable Grant on the shoulder. “So one day, I look across the room and I see this gorgeous woman standing up against the bar, and I think to myself, there she is, she's the one.”

“There I was,” Victoria murmurs under her breath, digging into her chicken with aggression.

“I’m about to walk over and introduce myself,” Garrett leans over, a charming grin on his face. “When this flat tire walks over to her with a smirk on his face.”

“Sweetheart, Phil wasn’t a flat tire,” Victoria interjects in a tired tone.

“Shush,” he says automatically dismissing her, “I’m telling a story here. So I walk up to them, wanting to introduce myself, and when I get closer, he’s berating her. Calling her stupid and stuff. Can you imagine that? Calling this dove stupid.” He leans forward and lightly caresses Victoria’s cheek.

Victoria flinches away from the touch, and quickly lifts her napkin to cover her face.

Garrett turns away from her, stuffing a mouth full of food into his mouth. “So I tell the guy,” Garrett says, waving his fork around rapidly, mouth stuffed to the brim with food so every syllable he utters is muffled. “If you wanna get to this lady,” he swallows thickly, pointing to Victoria, who glances down at her plate, face blushing in response. “You’re gonna have to go through me, first.” He smirks, leaning back in his chair. “That got him to back down, didn’t it, honey?”

“It sure did,” Victoria murmurs absently.

“I taught him a few things about manners afterwards,” he says winking at Jemma.

Her stomach twists and she glances down at the plate in front of her, regretting the attempt at conversation. She considers her next words carefully, knowing if she speaks too quickly it will be to tell Grant everything. Grant’s hand slides over her own, squeezing in reassurance. She glances up at him with a small smile of appreciation, wishing that she could tell him, that they were back in their own home, away from Garrett and everything else.

The door opens at and twitchy thin man enters, his eyes solely focused on Garrett.

Garrett heaves a sigh at the man’s appearance, and tosses the napkin on his lap at the table. Victoria looks up from her plate in anticipation. “What is it, Malcolm?”

“Sorry for the intrusion Mr. Garrett,” the man says with a thick accent, glancing nervously around the room. “But I got an update about that thing that you wanted.”

Garrett looks at the man shrewdly. “Did Sitwell handle the situation?”

Malcolm looks at Grant unsurely. “Actually Sir, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Oh out with it,” Garrett says with irritation. “You’re not a delicate daisy.”

Malcolm leans forward and murmurs in Garrett’s ears. He only takes a couple seconds to rely the information before he leans back quickly, out of Garrett’s reach.

Garrett glances at Grant strangely before standing up. “We have to go.”

“Sweetheart,” Victoria looks at Garrett with a pleading expression. “Now?”

“Yes, now,” he says irritably. “Grant and I have some business to deal with.”

Grant stays seated beside her. “Surely whatever it is, you could handle it on your own. I need to escort Jemma home.”

Garrett’s eyes tighten. “I need you for this one, Grant. It’s about your business.”

“Can’t it wait—,” Grant begins.

“No it can’t, we need to deal with this now.” Anger seeps into Garrett’s voice.

“Well then,” Grant looks at her hesitantly. “I’ll drop you off, before we head over to the Red Door.”

“No wait,” Victoria interjects quickly. “Jemma doesn’t have to leave, we still have so much to talk about.”

Garrett huffs in irritation. “Let the girl stay here for Pete’s sake. She can take your car back to your place after her and Victoria are done talking. Now let’s go.”

Grant hesitates for a moment longer, his eyes boring into hers. She wonders what he’d do if she asked him not to go, would he risk defying Garrett? “Go,” she urges him quietly, patting her hand over his. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at home.”

He smiles at her, “See you at home.”

And with that, he follows Garrett out the door, leaving uneasiness in his wake.

Victoria’s face brightens into a large smile. “Gosh, it’s about time. I never thought they would leave.” She stands up, mimicking her husband’s movements, tossing her napkin onto the table. Her back straightens and it’s like a weight has been lifted off her shoulder now that Garrett’s out of the room. She glances over at Jemma with a warm smile. “Join me in the other room for a cuppa, darling. We have much to discuss.”

Jemma stiffens in her chair, her hand clutched onto her fork tightly.

Victoria strides towards the door, stopping in the doorway to glance back at Jemma. “Are you coming or not? We don’t have much time.”

Feeling a bit disoriented, Jemma stands on shaky feet. “I don’t think I understand, you wanted to talk?”

“About something important, yes.” Victoria answers pleasantly. “Unfortunately the window for that conversation is closing as we speak, and this is a conversation best had over whiskey, so,” she gestures to the doorway.

Jemma hesitates, the change in Victoria is exhausting and she’s about to beg off and go back to the house to wait for Grant.

The grin slips off Victoria’s face and the warmth seeps out of her eyes. “Look Jemma, we could do this easily where I offer you a drink and break the news to you that I work for some people who are really interested in the information you might know about Garrett's business dealings, or I could drop the news on you like I just did.” She faux gasps lightly, her eyes wide in an innocent expression. “Oh, oops.”

Jemma stumbles backwards, the information slamming into her chest. What did she know? Why would Victoria know anyone who wanted to know it? Did Garrett set her up again? “Who are you?” She asks dumbly.

“Victoria Hand,” she says primly, sticking her hand out for Jemma to shake. “Victoria Garrett has always sounded a bit off to me,” she continues thoughtfully. “Probably because it’s not true.”

“You’re not married?” Jemma gasps out, her throat feeling a little raw. She reaches for the water glass on the dining table and gulps it down quickly.

“This would all be so much easier if you had just let me say my whole piece.” Victoria rolls her eyes, crossing her hands over her chest, cocking her hip against the frame of the doorway. “My marriage license means as much to me as the man I married, which if we’re being truthful with each other, I care very little about.”

“I think I might need that drink you were talking about,” Jemma says breathlessly, her throat drying up again.

Victoria’s eyes sparkle as she responds. “Thought you might.” She turns around and strides into the living room, Jemma stumbles after her. If Victoria wasn’t working for Garrett, who could she be working for? Or maybe she was lying? Victoria grabs one of the crystal bottles off the drinks tray and pours out two glasses of amber liquid. She hands one to Jemma and plops down on the couch with the other.

Jemma downs nearly half the glass; the liquid burns down her throat, shocking her back into focus. Her mind clears up as she sits down on one of the chairs facing Victoria.

“Now, where to begin,” Victoria muses, tapping her fingers against the glass.

“I find the beginning works in most cases,” Jemma says softly, her feet bouncing against the floor in anxiety.

“Yes that is sound advice,” Victoria says with an encouraging smile. “But which beginning? My birth? The moment I met Garrett? The beginning of his love for me? Or my hatred for him? There are many beginnings, Jemma Simmons and each one of them is as important as the one before it.”

“It’s Ward,” Jemma says softly, thumbing the clear glass.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Ward,” Jemma clears her throat. “Jemma Ward.”

Victoria’s grin widens, “I find it intriguing that you’ve taken on your husband’s name so quickly, considering the circumstances.”

Jemma shifts uncomfortable. “He is my husband,” she says, a pathetic means of explanation.

“Yes, well, not all women share you belief in the matter. Myself included, of course.” Victoria takes a sip of her glass thoughtfully. “John wanted me to take his name, he’s possessive in that way, said he wanted everyone to know that I was his.” She eyes Jemma carefully. “I do hope Grant wasn’t the same with you.”

“No,” Jemma shakes her head rapidly. “He’s been the opposite of that. Caring and understanding and,” her voice trails off, her cheeks flushing bright red. She busies herself with her glass again, keen to avoid the piercing gaze of Victoria.

“Hm,” Victoria hums, “That’s wonderful. I’m glad you’re getting along. Arranged marriages are so rare these days, it’s all about _love_ these days. It’s the rage, isn’t it?” Jemma glances up at Victoria, not sure if she’s meant to respond or not, but Victoria continues on. “I expressed concerns to John when he told me about Grant’s engagement to you. But he dismissed them, said I didn’t know what I was talking about, and that there was a reason that he was in charge of the business, not me.”

That was not surprising. Garrett didn’t quite strike her as the biggest believer in a women’s rights.

“It was always like that between us,” Victoria continues on thoughtfully. “Passionate from the start. He told you how he supposedly woo-ed me.” She snorts into her cup. “It wasn’t like that in the beginning. I was terrified of him. Everyone knew who he was, what he did. And even though I was hanging around a Speakeasy, I was raised a good girl. My parents expected me to marry a man who I could stand beside proudly, and I knew Garrett wasn’t that man. I pushed him away, refused his advances. But when Garrett wants something,” she trails off. “He always gets what he wants,” she smiles sadly, looking down at the hands in her lap.

“You fell in love with him?” Jemma asks uncertainly, unsure how anyone could ever love a man like Garrett.

“Haven’t you been listening?” Victoria scoffs. “I never chose this,” she gestures around them with a large wave. “Garrett always gets what he wants and he wants me.” She stops. “Or at least he wanted me at one point. I’m sure he’s had many mistresses since we’ve been married.”

Jemma’s mind instantly flashes to Melinda May, but she pushes the image away.

“It doesn’t matter what he does anymore. I’ve given up on him.” Victoria waves away.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Jemma asks, forcefully pushing the words out of her mouth. “You are married to him, and—.”

“It’s sweet,” Victoria says fondly. “Yes, John and I are married, but that doesn’t mean anything to him, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean anything to me. I value the contents of the sewers more than I value him.” She pauses, “Or at least I value myself a lot more than I value him.”

“I can understand that,” Jemma says slowly. “But Victoria I’m not sure what you’re—.”

“You know I see someone of myself in you,” Victoria leans forward, her glass tilting dangerously to the floor. “That wide-eyed innocent thing was something I used to have, before Garrett crushed it out of me. Perhaps that’s why I felt so bad for you, marrying Grant wouldn’t have been easy. I only wish I could have done something,” Victoria trails off.

“I appreciate that,” Jemma jumps in, “I really do. But Grant’s been very good to me, I’ve even begun to care—.”

“Oh we all think that in the beginning,” Victoria laughs, leaning back into the couch, lifting the glass back to her mouth, her mouth hovering on the edge of her glass. “They give you enough, just enough to keep you hooked, and when your back is turned, when you finally trust him, when you think that everyone else in the world is wrong about him, that only you know the truth. That he’s a good man,” she spits out, hatred lacing her voice. “That’s when he’ll betray you.”

Jemma freezes in her seat, the oppositions hang on the tip of her tongue. Grant wouldn’t betray her, he is a good man. But nothing actually leaves her mouth.

“Turning on John was easy, you know. He’s a powerful man, and powerful men always have enemies. You don’t get to the top without screwing a few people over.” Victoria continues conversationally. “It was the choice that was difficult. After all, you don’t marry someone you don’t love, at least just a little bit.” She pauses again and looks at Jemma. “At least most of us don’t. And yes, after everything I did feel a little bad. I was the good one after all,” her voice goes a little high pitched again. “I did everything right, even though he stole me. I tried to be a good wife. He just couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

The crude words shoot Jemma upright. “Actually Victoria,” she stutters, glancing at the clock. “It’s getting a little late and Grant’s going to be expecting me home soon. I should get going.”

Victoria doesn’t move, her eyes focus on Jemma with an intensity that freezes Jemma in her place. “I know you don’t understand me now. You think I’m weepy, that I’m emotional. But I’ve already told, I don’t care what Garrett does anymore. I’m beyond that now. I just want to get rid of him.”

“Surely you don’t mean,” Jemma says shaking her head. Garrett was awful, and he had done bad things, but even Victoria had to know that murdering him wasn’t justified.

“Let me put it this way, my husband will not be missed by anyone, least of all me.” She rolls her eyes. “But that’s not what I want. I want to see him suffer, to see him lose everything he’s spent his life working for him. I want to see him lose Hydra.”

The air leaves Jemma’s chest in one breath and the walls begin to close on her. “Why are you telling me this?” Her eyes dart towards the front door, itching for her to move, to get out of there.

“As you can imagine,” Victoria huffs out, “taking down Hydra isn’t an easy process. It requires knowledge, inside knowledge of Garrett’s business dealings. I’ve been trying for months to get any hint of what he’s been doing, but he’s shut me out. I was hoping you could help me with that.”

“You want me to tell you what I know of Garrett’s work,” Jemma clarifies, her heartbeat accelerating with every word. “Did he put you up to this?”

“What?” Victoria cocks her head to the side, her face impassive.

“I know the alleyway was a test. I know that Garrett wants to make sure I won’t tell anyone, so that’s why he’s making you test me. I won’t tell, I didn’t even tell Grant.” Jemma blabbers out, her chest heaving with each other, air puffing out of her mouth with each breath.

“What test? What alleyway?” Victoria’s eyes narrow. “What on earth are you talking about Jemma?”

“I’m talking about the girl, the girl that your husband killed in front of me to send me a message.” Jemma blurts out, before she slaps her hand over her mouth.

She doesn’t know what she expects. A gasp maybe, at least a look of pure shock. But Victoria just surveys her with that same impassive look. “I’m surprised you kept that in for so long, you’re a terrible liar, dear. And you say Grant doesn’t know? Well he always was a bit oblivious.” She shakes her head. “Do you know the girl’s name?”

Jemma shakes her head, tears springing into her eyes. “So this isn’t a test?” She asks brokenly.

“It isn’t,” and there’s a hint of sadness in Victoria’s eyes as she says it. “But perhaps it would make you feel better to pretend it was.”

“No it wouldn’t,” Jemma mutters brokenly. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I keep out of Grant’s business as much as I can. I don’t want to know about it, and he doesn’t tell me anything. And even if he did tell me anything,” she inhales deeply, “I wouldn’t tell you because I could never betray him like that.”

Victoria’s face twists into a bittersweet smile. “Love,” she repeats thoughtfully. “It’s all the rage these days, isn’t it?”

Again, Jemma doesn’t know how to respond. “I’m sorry Victoria,” she repeats.

“No,” she shakes her head. “You won’t betray Grant, and I can admire that. I just hope you realize that getting rid of Garrett is in your best interest as well, Jemma. As long as Grant works for Garrett, you’ll never get away from him.”

Jemma shivers at the thought, but she keeps her mouth shut.

“I hope you’ll keep that in mind the next time you think of me,” she says before glancing at the clock. “You’re right, it has gotten quite, you should head home and wait for that husband of yours while I wait for mine.”

Jemma stands up, hurrying towards the exit. She whirls around, one hand on the doorknob. “Thank you for hosting us in your lovely house,” she says remembering her manners.

“You’re too kind, considering my husband got you here by threatening you with death.” Victoria says, lifting her glass towards Jemma. “I just hope you forget what I said.”

Wrenching the door open, Jemma spares the older woman one last look. “I don’t think I ever will, Ms. Hand.”

Victoria’s face twists into a smirk, just as Jemma slams the door shut behind her.

xii.

The house is entirely dark when Jemma opens the door.

It’s a relief to be back in her own house, to be able to breath again without Garrett smirking at her, or Victoria looking at her impassively. She takes a moment to lean against the doorway and just breath. She pulls away smiling, before she strides into the living room, intent on waiting up for Grant. Perhaps that way they can climb into bed together for another night. She blushes lightly at the thought.

She flips on the light and the living room is flooded with light. There’s a figure on the couch, his head bowed in his hands.

She starts, clutching her hands to her chest before she recognizes the hair, the large hands, the slumped back. “Grant,” she hisses at him. “You gave me quite the fright. What are you doing with all the lights off?”

He lifts his head out of his hands slowly, turning to face her, a gaunt hallow look on his face, and a pit grows in Jemma’s stomach.

“What’s wrong?” She hurries towards him, sitting beside him on the couch, taking one of his large callous hands within her own. “What happened?”

“Jemma,” he mutters, his voice breaks and Jemma feels her heart crack at the sound.

She remembers how well he comforted her after that nightmare and she’s determined to do the same. “Whatever it is,” she says, lifting one of her hands off his to caress his face lightly. “I’m here with you. We’ll get through it together.”

“I’m afraid,” he says softly, his face pulling away from her touch.

“What are you afraid of?” She asks, tugging his face back to meet hers.

He shakes his head furiously, as if to shake the thought from his head. “Jemma,” he inhales deeply, steeling himself for whatever he's about to say. “I’m so sorry.”

The pit in Jemma’s stomach grows, fear clawing at her insides. “Sorry? Why? Grant, just tell me what’s going on.”

“Garrett thought there was a mole. Someone had been leaking information to the police for weeks now. It had to be an inside man,” he says slowly, his eyes falls to their joined hands.

Jemma’s mind jumps to Victoria, and then the woman in the alleyway, wondering if she should say something.

“He had Sitwell look into who it could be, and that’s why Garrett left tonight, because Sitwell found out who it was.” Grant continues, his voice low.

“And you left because?” Jemma asks slowly, the fear turning to ice in her stomach.

“I left because it was someone from the Red Door.”

Names and faces run through Jemma’s head. _Oh god_ , she thinks, please don’t let it be Lance, or Skye, or Bobbi, or Trip. She couldn’t stand the thought of losing any of them.

“Jemma,” Grant says slowly, interrupting her thoughts, his grip tightening over her hand. “It was Fitz.”

Her hands go slack within his. She hadn't even thought of him. “No,” she says numbly. “No there must be some mistake. Fitz wouldn’t.”

“I tried to make Garrett see reason, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He,” Grant’s voice falters. “He shot Fitz before we could talk to him.”

“But he’s okay, right? You got him to the hospital in time?” Jemma asks hopefully, tears clouding her vision.

“I’m so sorry, Jemma.” A miserable expression crosses over Grant’s face, twisting at her gut further. “It was a head shot.”

Her best friend was dead. He was dead. Fitz was dead.

“No,” she murmurs shaking her head furiously. “No, he can’t be dead. I just saw him weeks ago, he was fine. He can’t be dead.”

And that’s all she can manage before she crumbles. Her back gives out, and Grant pulls her into his chest. The warmth from his arms seeping into her, but despite that she shivers violently in his embrace, because everything is so cold. It's like Fitz sucked the warmth out of the world when he left and all that remained was Grant. She mutters into his shirt, her breath coming out in short gasps. Fitz's face runs through her head as she struggles to remember her last words to him, and his to her.

_"Love you too, Jemma."_

Her lungs burn and her vision narrows, fading to black, but right before everything is gone, she hears his voice calling out to her through the haze.

“I’m so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh...I'm sorry! 
> 
> Okay so in my original draft of this story, Fitz was supposed to play a larger part in the story, and not supposed to die, but then I came up with a different plot and it required someone to die that was going to hit Jemma hard. And unfortunately that meant I killed Fitz off. I'm sorry. 
> 
> But other than that I'm also sorry for the long wait for this chapter. Originally this chapter was supposed to start around the part where Grant and Jemma go to Garrett's for dinner. But then I decided to add a section with Grant comforting Jemma and them spending the night together and that just morphed into a bunch of Ward x Simmons scenes. I hope you guys enjoyed them. 
> 
> I also hope that it won't take me as long to get you guys the next chapter, I do have another two fics that take priority over this one for the moment. One of which is an update for you know someday. 
> 
> Please comment and kudos if you enjoyed and subscribe because there's at least 3 more chapters left to the story!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please comment and kudos. Also please subscribe, because there is definitely more to come!


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